WILL! 





JACK  LANKERSHfM 


. 


THE    MOTH 


U     i 


[See  page.  197 


OVE  IS  BUT  A  PART  OF  LIFE,  ONLY 
A  PART,  AND  I  WANT  IT  ALL! 
SEE  — I  LOVE  YOU  EVERY  ONE!" 


The  Moth 


The  Story  of  a  Beautiful  High-Spirited  Girl 
By  WILLIAM  DANA  ORCUTT 

Author   of    ;<The    Lever,"    "The    Spell,"    "The 
Flower   of   Destiny,"  etc. 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
L.  W.  HITCHCOCK 


A  L.    BURT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK. 

Published  by  Arrangement  with  Harper  &  Brothers 


COPYRIGHT,  igia 
BY  HARPER  ft  BROTHERS 

MINTED  IB  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 
PUBLISHED  AUGUST,   I  9!  3 

L-M 


TO    MT    81STKB8 

M.  F.  G.,  L.  A.  O  AV.  AHD  H.  W.  O. 

IH    AF»ECTIO« 


THE    MOTH 


THE    MOTH 


MRS.  SPENCER  is  in  the  library,"  the  butler  told 
Cunningham,  as  he  was  relieved  of  his  hat  and 
cane;  and  with  a  familiarity  which  bespoke 
intimacy  with  the  house  and  its  inmates  the  caller  im- 
mediately turned  to  the  stairway  leading  to  the  second 
floor.  He  was  late  in  dropping  in  at  the  Spencers'  for 
tea,  but  as  this  was  the  direct  result  of  the  suggestion 
made  by  his  hostess  over  the  telephone,  it  had  not  occurred 
to  him  that  he  would  find  her  still  entertaining  friends. 
The  sound  of  voices  interspersed  with  laughter  told  him 
of  his  mistake  even  before  he  stood  at  the  door,  looking 
in  on  the  animated  scene. 

"Miller,  Hayden,  Reed,  Langdon,  Clapp  —  five  men 
and  not  a  woman  in  sight  except  our  charming  hostess," 
Cunningham  counted  with  finger  upraised.  "Dare  I 
enter  and  still  further  overbalance  the  situation?" 

"Come  on  in,"  Langdon  insisted,  before  Mrs.  Spencer 
could  greet  him;  "six  to  one  is  only  a  fair  division  with 
Lucy  on  the  other  side.  She  is  running  us  for  fair  today." 

"You  know  that  they're  maligning  me,  don't  you, 
Ned?"  she  protested  to  the  newcomer  as  he  approached 

[3] 


THE    MOTH 


the  tea-table  behind  which  she  was  ensconced.      "I've 
simply  tried  to  defend  myself. " 

"But  where  are  the  women?"  Cunningham  inquired 
laughingly,  accepting  the  cup  she  offered  him.  "If  the 
men  are  taking  to  tea-tasting,  what  is  left  for  our  poor 
wives  and  sisters  to  consider  as  their  prerogative?" 

"The  place  has  been  simply  cluttered  up  with  women," 
Hayden  explained,  "and  we've  had  to  sit  them  out  in 
order  to  have  this  cosy  time  with  Lucy." 

"Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  we've  had  her  to 
ourselves  all  the  afternoon,"  corroborated  Miller;  "that 
would  be  too  much  luck." 

Mrs.  Spencer  laughed  happily.  "You  see  you're  all 
wrong  again,  Ned.  This  is  my  last  day  at  home  before 
going  to  the  shore,  and  we  have  had  a  beautiful  party. 
Haven't  we,  Bertie?" 

Clapp  was  delighted  to  find  himself  appealed  to:  "Too 
many  women,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  replied  gravely. 
"It's  much  nicer  now." 

"But  it  is  because  you  all  are  so  good  to  me  that  the 
women  do  come,"  Lucy  explained.  "After  being  bored 
to  death  at  other  teas  where  they  can  visit  only  with 
one  another,  they  flock  here  to  have  a  really  good  time 
with  you." 

"We  have  to  be  civil  to  them,"  Archie  Reed  ventured, 
apologetically. 

"Of  course,"  Lucy  laughed  again;  "but  you  didn't  find 
it  very  difficult  to  be  civil  to  Miss  Stanhope,  now  did  you?  " 

"Well"  —  Archie  hesitated  —  "not  too  difficult.  She 
is  a  pleasing  little  party,  isn't  she?  I'm  glad  you've  added 
her  to  your  collection." 

"Boys,"  Langdon  exclaimed  suddenly,  "this  endurance 
test  ought  to  be  brought  to  a  close  by  mutual  consent. 

[4] 


THE    MOTH 


Evidently  no  one  of  us  is  magnanimous  enough  to  leave 
the  field  to  the  others,  so  I  move  that  we  all  go  together." 

"But  I've  only  just  come,"  Cunningham  protested. 

"That  is  what  has  spoiled  the  combination,"  Miller 
explained.  "We  all  had  an  equal  start,  so  no  one  could 
complain;  but  now  what  Langdon  calls  an  endurance 
test  has  become  a  relay.  We  won't  be  grabby-minded, 
Ned;  but  we  do  hate  to  leave  you  here." 

"  I  appreciate  your  generosity,  —  especially  as  it  is 
getting  so  near  dinner  time  that  I  shall  have  to  follow 
close  in  your  footsteps." 

Lucy  rose  as  the  men  started  to  go.  "I  shall  count  on 
seeing  you  often  this  summer,"  she  said  to  Langdon. 
"You  won't  desert  me  just  because  I'm  at  the  shore, 
will  you?" 

"By  no  means,  —  but  I  can't  ask  you  to  motor  with 
me  because  I'm  going  to  give  up  my  car." 

"Give  up  your  car?"   she  echoed,  surprised. 

"Yes;   I'm  going  to  economize  this  summer." 

"Don't  do  it,"  Lucy  advised  seriously;  "there's 
nothing  in  it.  You'll  simply  be  going  without  something 
you  really  want  for  fear  that  some  time  in  the  future  you 
may  want  something  which  when  the  time  comes  you 
probably  won't  want." 

"That  is  a  perfect  definition,"  laughed  Hayden.  "  I 
become  a  spendthrift  from  this  moment,  and  shall  turn  to 
you  for  justification." 

"You'll  come  down  to  see  me  too,  won't  you?"  Lucy 
continued,  turning  to  Miller. 

"I'm  sure  to,"  he  replied.  "It's  such  a  relief  to  get 
away  from  the  queer  nice  people." 

"That  isn't  a  kind  remark  at  all,"  she  chided  him. 
"If  I  were  old  Dame  Boston  I  would  box  your  ears! 

[5] 


THE    MOTH 


When  Vallie  decided  to  come  here  from  New  York  I" 
shivered  all  over,  and  it  is  just  these  silly  jokes  cracked 
by  its  own  people  at  its  expense  which  give  the  city 
its  icy  reputation.  Now,  I  love  it,  and  so  do  you.  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"I  am,"  Miller  admitted  with  proper  humility.  "It's 
a  habit  we  fall  into." 

"It's  worse  than  a  habit,"  Lucy  corrected,  —  "it's  an 
affectation.  I  notice  you  don't  let  any  one  from  outside 
knock  the  little  old  town." 

"I've  just  got  a  car,"  Archie  Reed  interrupted,  as  he 
brought  up  in  the  rear,  looking  triumphantly  at  Langdon, 
"and  it  didn't  cost  me  a  cent." 

"Did  you  steal  it?"  asked  Miller. 

"No,"  was  the  resentful  response.  "I  put  a  $2,500 
mortgage  on  the  house,  and  then  mortgaged  the  machine 
for  the  balance.  Pretty  clever,  wasn't  it?" 

"Archie,  you're  a  born  financier!"  Lucy  complimented 
him.  —  "Now,  remember,  I  count  on  every  one  of  you 
to  keep  my  summer  from  being  stupid." 

"That  could  never  be,"  Clapp  insisted  as  he  moved 
toward  the  stairs  with  the  others.  "You'd  make  a  desert 
look  like  the  Arnold  Arboretum." 

"I'm  counting  on  all  of  you,"  she  repeated  gaily,  bid- 
ding the  last  goodbye;  "see  that  you  fail  me  not!" 

As  the  men  disappeared  Lucy  and  Cunningham  turned 
back  to  the  library.  "I  knew  you  wouldn't  disappoint 
me,"  she  said;  "you  never  do." 

"When  a  lady  says  she  must  see  me,  there  is  no 
alternative,  is  there?  " 

"Then  you  came  today  as  a  matter  of  duty?" 

"Rather  let  us  say  —  gallantry,"  he  corrected  lightly, 
"to  which  was  added  a  desire  to  see  you  again  before  you 

[6] 


THE    MOTH 


leave  town,  and  to  express  those  commonplace  platitudes 
for  the  summer  which  in  this  case  happen  to  be  genuinely 
sincere.  When  do  you  leave?  " 

"Thursday,"  she  replied  quietly,  settling  into  a 
contemplative  silence. 

"So  soon?"  he  queried.  "Then  I  am  just  in  time. 
Where's  Vallie?" 

"Vallie?"  she  echoed,  recovering  from  her  momentary 
introspection,  and  with  returning  vivacity;  "you  surely 
didn't  expect  to  find  him  here,  —  let  me  pour  you  some 
more  tea.  —  Vallie,  I  have  no  doubt,  is  playing  auction  at 
the  Badminton  Club,  where  he'll  stay  until  his  luck  is  bad, 
which  will  remind  him  of  home.  But  I  don't  want  to 
talk  about  Vallie  now,  —  so  here's  wishing  him  nothing 
but  no-trump  hands." 

Cunningham  smiled.  "Still  the  spoiled  child,"  he  said. 
"If  I  were  Vallie  I  should  be  in  a  quandary  to  know 
whether  to  starve  you  into  behaving  like  a  rational  wife 
and  mother,  or  to  try  beating." 

It  was  Lucy  Spencer's  turn  to  laugh.  "You  as  a  wife- 
beater!"  she  exclaimed.  "Why,  Ned,  one  of  your  chief 
recommendations  is  the  sweet  way  you  let  Margaret  wind 
you  about  her  little  finger.  Surely  you  know  that." 

"Indeed!"  Cunningham  arched  his  eyebrows.  "If  I 
have  convinced  Margaret  and  her  friends  of  this,  then 
I  have  proved  myself  a  diplomat." 

"You  hypocrite!"  she  cried  gaily,  "even  to  try  to 
explain  away  what  everybody  knows!" 

"Oh,  well."  Cunningham  appeared  resigned.  "A  man 
with  a  good  disposition  is  always  doomed  to  misinterpre- 
tation. I  admit  that  I  always  yield  on  immaterials  — 

"And  on  the  material  things,  too,"  she  laughed.  "But 
don't  think  I'm  objecting;  it's  splendid." 

[71 


THE    MOTH 


"You  forget  that  Peggy  is  an  ideal  wife,"  he  protested," 
teasingly. 

Lucy  pouted.  "In  which  respect  you  congratulate 
yourself  that  you  have  the  advantage  over  Vallie?" 

"Now  we're  even,"  Cunningham  declared  trium- 
phantly. "But  you  surely  didn't  telephone  me  so  peremp- 
torily to  come  here  this  afternoon  merely  to  discuss  the 
comparative  merits  of  wives?  What  was  the  'serious 
matter'  you  wanted  to  talk  over  with  me?" 

"Did  I  say  it  was  serious?" 

Cunningham  looked  up  quickly.  "If  you've  forgotten 
already  it  couldn't  have  been  of  much  consequence." 

"Yes  it  was,"  she  hastened  to  insist.  "First  of  all,  I 
wanted  to  have  a  last  little  visit  with  you,  and  then  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  when  we  were  going  down  to  Beverly 
Farms." 

"What  is  so  serious  in  all  that?" 

"I'm  going  to  miss  you  horribly,"  she  said  frankly. 

Cunningham  put  his  cup  down  abruptly  on  the  table 
beside  him. 

"Of  course,  I  mean  you  and  Margaret,"  she  added 
quickly.  "Why  can't  you  take  a  house  down  there 
near  us?" 

"First  of  all  because  Peggy  doesn't  care  for  the  North 
Shore,  secondly  because  houses  can't  be  picked  up  at 
a  moment's  notice,  and  thirdly  because  we  expect  to 
stay  in  town  most  of  the  summer." 

"I  wish  you  could,"  Lucy  continued.  "I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  three  months  with  only  an  occasional  glimpse 
of  you." 

"We  might  motor  down  even  two  or  three  times," 
Cunningham  answered  lightly,  unwilling  to  encourage 
her  mood  by  taking  it  seriously. 

[8] 


THE    MOTH 


There  was  a  momentary  silence  as  each  sedately 
munched  a  marguerite  and  sipped  the  tea.  Lucy  made 
an  attractive  picture  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
rested  her  head  against  the  cushion.  She  was  tall  and 
slight,  —  the  figure  which  fashionable  dressmakers  love 
to  drape  and  which  men  call  "youthful"  from  lack  of 
descriptive  power  to  express  their  admiration.  Woman- 
like, not  satisfied  with  the  favors  given  by  the  gods,  she 
bemoaned  the  fact  that  her  eyes  were  brown  instead  of 
blue,  and  that  the  wonderfully  luxurious  hair,  her  crown- 
ing glory,  was  not  blond  instead  of  brown.  But  she  found 
no  sympathizers.  To  men,  she  was  one  in  whom  they  could 
wish  no  change;  the  women  characterized  her  self-criticism 
as  a  pose  to  call  attention  to  her  physical  superiority. 

It  was  seldom  that  her  face  was  in  repose,  and  Cunning- 
ham thought  the  calm  became  her  mightily,  as  he  wratched 
her  with  an  amused  expression.  He  had  never  noticed 
before  that  her  lashes  were  so  exceedingly  long,  or  that 
her  profile  was  so  nearly  perfect.  He  decided,  in  that 
brief  interval,  that  this  attitude  showed  his  hostess 
to  even  better  advantage  than  the  light-hearted,  irre- 
sponsible yet  irresistible  vivacity  which  always  asso- 
ciated itself  with  his  thought  of  her;  that  this  calm  was 
even  more  convincing  proof  of  her  beauty  than  the  tan- 
talizing smile  which  came  as  much  from  her  dancing, 
mischievous  eyes  as  from  her  lips,  and  which  made  every 
man  she  met  her  ardent  admirer  and  defender  against 
all-comers,  mainly  of  her  own  sex,  who  ventured  to  suggest 
that  Lucy  Spencer's  daring  camaraderie  was  hardly  what 
might  be  expected  of  a  married  woman  with  two  children. 
Even  the  ideal  Margaret  had  once  quietly  remarked  this 
to  her  husband,  but  Cunningham,  as  she  had  foreseen, 
quickly  rallied  to  the  cause. 

[9J 


THE    MOTH 


"Nonsense,  Peggy,"  he  had  said,  "Lucy  is  a  good  pal, 
that's  all.  She  is  unconventional;  but  at  times  a  man 
finds  it  a  positive  relief  to  meet  a  woman  who  is  able  to 
forget  her  sex.  She's  as  harmless  as  she  is  beautiful." 

"I  wouldn't  dare  argue  against  so  prominent  a  member 
of  the  Boston  bar,"  Margaret  had  said  with  a  smile  which 
Cunningham  recognized  as  significant,  "with  the  definite 
certainty  that  as  the  case  would  be  tried  before  a  jury 
composed  of  men,  the  plaintiff  could  expect  no  mercy. 
I'll  wait  until  we  get  women  on  the  jury." 

Cunningham's  mind  reverted  to  this  conversation  as  he 
sat  watching  his  companion.  How  severe  the  judgment 
which  woman  passes  upon  woman,  —  how  much  more 
exacting  than  the  standard  which  man  sets  for  his  fellow- 
man!  Lucy's  eye  met  his  squarely  as  she  looked  up. 

"But  you  probably  won't  do  it,"  she  said.  "You  don't 
care  for  Vallie,  and  Margaret  doesn't  approve  of  me,  so 
as  soon  as  we  are  separated  you'll  yield  the  point  to  her 
as  another  one  of  those  '  immaterials,'  and  I  don't  believe 
I  shall  see  you  once." 

It  required  a  moment  for  Cunningham  to  recall  the 
conversation  which  had  been  apparently  concluded  by 
the  intervening  silence. 

"Perhaps  I  can  make  a  real  issue  of  it,"  he  replied  with 
mock  gravity.  "I  must  do  something  to  assert  my  in- 
dependence. But  Vallie  and  I  are  good  enough  friends, 
and  so  are  you  and  Margaret.  Our  hobbies  aren't  all 
the  same,  but  that's  what  gives  life  its  interest." 

"You  agree  with  Margaret  that  I  am  hopelessly  silly 
and  indiscreet,  now  don't  you?" 

"That  you  urged  me  to  come  here  this  afternoon  with 
so  little  reason  would  seem  to  substantiate  such  an  opinion, 
whether  Margaret  held  it  or  not.' 

[10] 


THE    MOTH 


"But  you're  not  angry  with  me,  are  you,  Ned?" 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  remain  so  long;  but  frankly, 
you  do  frighten  me  sometimes.  A  pretty  woman  can 
never  afford  to  be  the  slightest  bit  indiscreet  — 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  it  makes  whether  she  is 
pretty  or  not.  A  woman's  a  woman." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  with  some  women  their  faces  are 
their  chaperones.  I've  seen  lots  of  women  who  couldn't 
be  indiscreet  if  they  broke  every  convention  in  the 
decalogue  of  society." 

Lucy  laughed  and  then  became  demure.  "I  didn't  know 
that  indiscretion  in  some  one  else's  wife  ever  frightened 
a  man,"  she  said. 

"When  'some  one  else's  wife'  is  a  friend,  whom  the 
man  admires  except  for  those  indiscretions,  he  considers 
it  genuine  cause  for  alarm." 

"Then  you  do  admire  me  except  for  that?"  she  asked 
quickly.  A  moment  later  as  if  to  herself:  "I  wonder  if  by 
any  chance  we  should  have  cared  for  each  other  if  we 
had  met  —  earlier." 

"That  is  a  fairly  good-sized  question,"  he  replied,  in- 
dulging her.  "We  don't  have  to  decide  it  now,  do  we?" 

"No,"  she  answered  seriously;  "but  sometimes  I 
wonder  if  I  could  have  cared  for  any  one  except  myself 
if  conditions  had  been  different." 

"What  an  absurd  remark,"  Cunningham  asserted. 
"You  happen  to  be  out  of  sorts  with  Vallie,  and  — 

"Out  of  sorts  with  Vallie?"  she  echoed.  "Nothing  of 
the  kind.  Vallie's  all  right  as  husbands  go.  I  think  we'd 
be  good  friends  if  we  weren't  married;  but  the  more  I  see 
of  husbands  the  better  I  like  dogs.  Of  course,  you're 
an  exception,  Ned,  and  perhaps  that's  why  I  like  you.  It 
isn't  a  case  of  the  burnt  ashes  of  love  at  all.  Vallie  evi- 

[11] 


THE    MOTH 


dently  thought  I  would  make  an  attractive  house  orna- 
ment, and  there  wasn't  any  one  I  liked  better,  so  before 
either  one  of  us  knew  it  we  were  walking  together  up  the 
broad  aisle,  and  listening  to  the  congratulations  of  our 
friends.  It's  the  same  old  story,  but  I'm  not  finding  any 
fault  with  it." 

Cunningham  was  amused  in  spite  of  himself.  "You 
are  certainly  incorrigible,  Lucy;  but  I  beg  of  you  don't 
let  any  one  else  hear  you  talk  like  that." 

"Vallie  wouldn't  mind,"  she  continued.  "As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  think  he's  as  grateful  to  me  for  amusing  myself 
without  boring  him  as  I  am  to  him  for  letting  me  do  so. 
The  dear  boy  is  proud  to  have  other  men  admire  his  wife, 
and  proud  that  I  still  manage  to  keep  some  of  the  good 
looks  I  had  when  he  married  me.  —  Never  mind  how  I 
keep  them,  Ned;  if  you're  curious,  ask  Margaret. — He's 
proud  of  his  children,  but  a  little  of  them  goes  a  long  ways 
with  him.  If  Larry  had  a  hare-lip,  or  Babs  had  squinty 
eyes,  he  never  would  look  at  them  again.  Vallie's  all 
right.  You  needn't  worry  about  him  a  bit." 

"Then  how  about  me?"  Cunningham  demanded. 
"I'm  somewhat  married  myself  — " 

"That's  just  the  point,"  Lucy  again  interrupted. 
"  Being  married  makes  you  safer  than  these  other  men,  — 
immune  as  it  were.  You  and  Margaret  adore  each  other, 
and  no  one  on  earth  could  hope  to  raise  the  slightest 
ripple  on  the  placid  surface  of  your  matrimonial  tran- 
quillity even  if  she  wanted  to,  which  I  certainly  do  not. 
Don't  you  see,  Ned,  that's  where  you  do  me  an  injustice 
when  you  call  me  indiscreet.  If  you  weren't  married,  it 
wouldn't  be  safe  for  me  to  tell  you  how  much  I  think  of 
you,  but  as  you  are  there  isn't  the  slightest  chance  of  a 
misunderstanding.  Vallie  and  Margaret  are  disgustingly 

(121 


THE    MOTH 


healthy,  and  even  disregarding  all  laws  of  chance,  if  you 
and  I  were  both  free  I  probably  shouldn't  care  for 
you  at  all.  Today  I'm  particularly  doubtful,  since  you 
spoke  of  starving  and  beating  me.  Vallie  wouldn't  think 
of  such  a  thing." 

"But  are  your  indiscretions,  as  I  call  them,  really  con- 
fined to  those  '  immune,'  Lucy  —  even  granting  that 
immunity  is  a  positive  factor.  Where,  for  instance,  did 
you  meet  Captain  Auchester?" 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "At  The  Country  Club 
races.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"You  invited  him  to  call  on  you?" 

"Why  not?    Vallie  introduced  him." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  him?" 

"Not  a  thing,  except  that  he's  agreeable.  That's 
Vallie's  business.  He's  mighty  entertaining."  She 
leaned  forward  with  ill-concealed  curiosity.  "Do  you 
know  anything  bad  about  him?" 

"Nothing,  except  that  he  has  offered  no  credentials; 
and  until  I  knew  something  more  I  should  not  think  of 
presenting  him  to  Margaret." 

"  Well,  don't  blame  Vallie.  The  poor  boy  was  perishing 
for  a  drink,  and  he  couldn't  leave  me  standing  on  the  lawn 
alone,  could  he?  He  had  to  introduce  some  one,  and 
Captain  Auchester  at  least  is  amusing.  I  was  grateful 
that  he  was  the  first  man  Vallie's  eye  happened  to  find 
after  he  felt  his  thirst  coming  on." 

"And  he's  unmarried,"  Cunningham  added  signifi- 
cantly. "Suppose,  for  instance,  that  you  find  that  he 
gives  you  something  to  think  of  besides  yourself,  and  you 
begin  to  get  dependent  on  him,  or  on  any  one  of  these  men 
who  have  just  left,  to  relieve  your  ennui,  as  you  say  you 
have  on  me,  — what  then?" 

[13] 


THE    MOTH 


"But  I  wouldn't,  Ned,"  she  insisted.  "I  tell  you  it  is 
because  I  feel  so  safe  with  you.  I  know  that  you  wouldn't 
take  advantage." 

She  stopped  suddenly  as  an  idea  possessed  her,  then  she 
placed  a  hand  quietly  over  Cunningham's.  "You  dear 
old  Ned,"  she  said  softly,  but  with  supreme  satisfaction 
in  her  voice;  "I  really  believe  that  you  are  jealous  of 
Captain  Auchester." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  he  cried,  rising  abruptly. 
"There  are  limits  which  even  you  must  observe.  I  re- 
fuse to  stay  and  give  you  the  opportunity  to  make 
yourself  ridiculous." 

"You  are,  you  are!"  she  repeated  exultantly,  rising  with 
him  and  preventing  him  from  withdrawing  his  hand. 
"Dear,  dear  old  Ned!  Please  keep  on  watching  over 
me  just  as  you  are  now.  But  Ned,  you  needn't  be  a  bit 
jealous  of  Captain  Auchester." 

She  drew  closer  to  him  and  suddenly  clasped  her  arms 
about  his  neck.  "I  wouldn't  do  this  to  him,  would  I, 
Ned?" 

"I  should  hope  not!"  He  firmly  held  her  from  him, 
angry  at  her  audacity,  half-intoxicated  by  the  soft  pres- 
sure of  her  face  against  his  own.  "I  should  hope 
that  you  would  know  better  than  so  to  forget  yourself 
at  all." 

"Oh,  Ned,  —  don't  be  cross!"  The  smiling  face  again 
came  nearer  to  his,  and  the  dancing  eyes  mocked  his 
self-restraint.  "Neddie,"  she  repeated  softly,  "you  may 
kiss  me  if  you  like  —  just  once,  to  show  how  much  I 
trust  you." 

Cunningham  held  her  in  his  arms  as  in  a  vise  for  so 
long  a  moment  that  it  frightened  her. 

"  You're  not  really  going  to  do  it ! "  she  cried  aghast. 
[14] 


THE    MOTH 


"It  would  serve  you  right  if  I  did,  just  to  punish  you, 
you  little  vixen;  and  the  fact  that  I  don't  isn't  due  to 
you  or  to  me.  I  might  even  forget  Vallie  in  wishing  for 
this  little  minute  that  I  wasn't  married  myself,  but  I'm 
only  human,  child,  and  I  wouldn't  take  that  chance  again 
if  I  were  you." 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't,  Ned,"  she  replied  with  a  weak, 
conscious  laugh  of  relief  as  she  sank  into  a  chair  when 
Cunningham  released  her. 

"Let  this  be  a  lesson,"  he  continued  sternly.  "You 
have  no  right  to  love  any  one  except  — 

"Love!"  she  echoed,  sitting  upright.  "Who  said  any- 
thing about  that?  I  don't  love  any  one  except  —  myself. 
Now  who's  silly?  My!  but  your  arms  are  strong!  I 
promise  I  will  never  try  again  to  force  even  a  mother's 
kiss  upon  you.  You  need  not  run  when  you  see  me 
—  you  may  consider  yourself  quite  safe.  Now  will  you 
forgive  me?  —  yes?  "  she  ran  on,  giving  him  no  opportunity 
to  take  part  in  the  conversation  —  "yes?  Then  goodbye. 
And  remember,  you've  promised  to  assert  your  independ- 
ence, so  I  shall  expect  you  and  Margaret  to  motor  down 
to  the  shore  —  how  soon  shall  we  say?  —  within  two 
weeks  ?  Goodbye ! " 


1151 


II 


THE  telephone  was  a  welcome  diversion  to  Lucy 
Spencer  after  Cunningham  departed.  In  spite  of 
her  self-control  the  episode  which  had  just  taken 
place  left  her  feeling  more  uncomfortable  than  anything 
which  had  occurred  within  her  recent  memory,  and  that 
was  as  far  as  her  memory  went  back.  She  knew  that  she 
was  impulsive,  and  prided  herself  upon  it,  but  she  had 
been  sincere  in  saying  to  Cunningham  that  she  believed 
him  unjust  in  calling  her  indiscreet.  Now,  she  admitted 
to  herself,  she  had  given  him  every  reason  to  consider  his 
judgment  correct.  All  of  this  introspection  was  gradually 
leading  her  on  toward  self-reproach,  and  nothing  annoyed 
her  so  much  as  to  discover  one  of  those  rare  intervals 
near  at  hand.  So,  just  as  her  slippered  foot  was  beginning 
to  tap  the  rug  with  a  certain  regularity  of  motion  which 
could  lead  only  to  personal  humiliation,  a  call  to  the 
telephone  relieved  the  situation. 

It  was  Valentine  Spencer  whose  voice  responded  to  her 
prompt  "hullo."  His  bridge  hands  had  evidently  run  well, 
judging  from  those  variations  in  tone  by  which  a  wife 
discovers  many  things  which  a  husband  does  not  realize 
he  is  disclosing.  He  was  just  ready  for  dinner,  the  voice 
said,  and  Captain  Auchester  was  with  him.  Yes,  they 
had  been  playing  auction  together  at  the  Badminton  Club, 

[16] 


THE    MOTH 


and  the  Captain  was  a  wonderful  player,  —  had  real  card 
sense,  which  so  many  of  the  men  lacked.  If  convenient 
to  her,  he  would  be  glad  to  bring  him  home  to  dinner; 
if  not,  they  both  would  dine  at  the  club. 

The  cordiality  of  Lucy's  reply  left  nothing  to  be  desired, 
so  matters  easily  arranged  themselves  to  the  satisfaction  of 
all.  Nothing  could  have  fitted  in  better  with  her  mood. 
After  Cunningham's  criticism,  she  felt  it  to  be  an  act  of 
expiation  to  show  at  least  a  temporary  interest  in  her 
husband,  and  the  presence  of  so  agreeable  a  dinner  guest  as 
Captain  Auchester  made  it  possible  for  her  to  do  this  with 
no  personal  sacrifice.  And  the  Captain  was  so  entertain- 
ing that  his  presence,  she  was  sure,  would  enable  her  to 
banish  the  uncomfortable  thoughts  of  the  past  half-hour. 
A  few  hasty  orders  relative  to  the  dinner,  a  change  of 
gown,  a  careful  inspection  of  herself  to  make  certain 
that  her  face  bore  no  telltale  evidence  of  even  tempor- 
ary discomfort,  and  she  was  ready  to  welcome  the  two 
men  a  few  moments  before  the  usual  hour  for  dining. 

Lucy's  dinners,  however  small  or  informal,  possessed 
an  air  of  individuality  which  always  gave  them  distinction. 
Many  women  display  their  originality  in  the  variety  of 
their  salads,  but  Lucy  constitutionally  avoided  the  con- 
ventional road  to  fame,  enjoying  no  less  the  exclamations 
of  surprise  which  came  from  her  guests  when  they  met  with 
some  unfamiliar  dish.  This  was  the  extent  of  her  market- 
ing. She  was  quite  content  that  her  efficient  housekeeper 
should  provide  the  substantial,  but  found  a  hectic  pleas- 
ure in  ransacking  the  markets  and  the  stores  of  fancy 
grocers  in  her  quest  for  the  unusual.  Russia  contributed 
its  fresh  caviar,  China  its  choicest  tea  and  even  a  bird's- 
nrst  soup  when  Lucy's  knowledge  of  her  guests  permitted 
the  experiment,  Japan  gave  of  its  sweetmeats  and  India 
2  [17] 


THE    MOTH 


a  special  curry  which  she  had  prepared  from  a  famous 
old  receipt;  but  to  remove  this  particular  dinner  from  the 
commonplace  she  selected  a  small  jar  of  rose-leaf  preserve, 
imported  directly  from  Persia. 

Auchester  lived  up  to  his  reputation,  and  Spencer  no 
less  than  Lucy  fell  beneath  the  spell  of  his  charm.  No 
two  men  could  have  formed  a  greater  contrast:  Spencer 
was  slight  and  of  medium  height,  with  light  hair,  so  light 
that  his  eyebrows  and  the  slight  growth  upon  his  upper 
lip  scarcely  showed;  the  Captain  stood  six  feet  two  in 
his  stockings,  straight  and  erect,  with  full  cheeks  bronzed 
by  exposure,  and  his  hair  and  mustache  dark  and  luxu- 
riant; Spencer  was  nervous  in  his  temperament  and 
quick  of  speech,  while  the  other  man  gave  evidence  in 
his  bearing  of  a  training  which  had  produced  a  calm 
exterior  which  nothing  could  disturb.  The  one  was  the 
carefully  finished  product  of  the  city;  the  other  the  prod- 
uct of  the  world. 

All  that  the  guest  had  said  was  spoken  simply,  yet 
during  the  dinner  his  hosts  learned  much  of  the  wide 
extent  of  his  experiences.  He  referred  incidentally  to  his 
service  hi  South  Africa  under  Little  Bobs,  in  Egypt  under 
Kitchener,  and,  more  recently,  in  Mexico  under  Diaz. 

"What  were  you  doing  in  Mexico?"  Lucy  demanded. 
"The  English  took  no  part  in  the  revolution. " 

Auchester  laughed  consciously.  "That  is  a  fair  question, 
Mrs.  Spencer,"  he  replied, "  but  in  answering  it  I  fear  I  shall 
lose  caste  in  your  eyes.  The  truth  is  that  I  can't  keep  away 
from  a  scrap.  It's  in  the  blood,  I  fear,  for  I  can't  remember 
the  time,  even  as  a  little  chap,  when  I  was  not  mixed  up  in 
some  one  else's  difficulties.  I  always  happen  to  be  where 
trouble  breaks  out,  become  inoculated  with  the  excite- 
ment, and  before  I've  really  considered  the  matter,  I'm 

[18] 


THE    MOTH 


in  the  thick  of  the  fuss.  Curious,  isn't  it?  I  left  my 
regiment  two  years  ago,  determined  to  keep  away  from 
the  smell  of  powder  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  the 
only  difference  seems  to  have  been  that  since  then  I've 
been  fighting  under  different  flags." 

Lucy  listened  with  rapt  attention.  "It  sounds  like  a 
chapter  out  of  '  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda,'  doesn't  it, 
Vallie?"  she  asked. 

"I  beg  of  you!"  the  Captain  raised  a  hand  protestingly. 
"I'll  grant  that  I've  laid  myself  liable  to  be  regarded  as 
a  soldier  of  fortune  by  what  I've  said  as  well  as  by  what 
I've  done,  but  the  fact  is  that  I'm  a  bit  sensitive  on  that 
score.  In  army  circles  we  look  upon  a  man  who  earns 
his  living  serving  different  sovereigns  as  more  or  less  of  a 
bounder,  so  I've  tried  to  salve  my  self-respect  by  remaining 
my  own  master  whenever  I've  fought  away  from  my  regi- 
ment and  the  English  flag.  Perhaps  it's  a  small  difference, 
but  it  is  my  only  defense.  If  war  broke  out  here  today 
against  any  country  but  England  I  would  simply  have  to 
join  in;  and  if  it  was  against  England  I'd  swim  to  Lands 
End  to  get  into  it  from  the  other  side." 

"Can't  we  stir  up  a  little  unpleasantness,  Vallie,  and 
give  our  guest  a  chance  for  a  demonstration?"  Lucy 
asked,  mischievously. 

"You're  making  game  of  me,"  the  Captain  again  pro- 
tested; "I'd  much  rather  talk  of  something  else  than  my- 
self. Tell  me  where  you  found  this  wonderful  rose-leaf 
conserve,  —  this  breath  of  Omar  Khayyam,  stolen  from 
the  flesh-pots  of  Persia." 

Lucy's  heightened  color  reflected  her  pleasure  that  the 
sudden  inspiration  which  came  after  Vallie's  telephone 
had  brought  such  immediate  reward.  "How  did  you 
know  that  it  came  from  Persia?  "  she  asked. 

[19] 


THE    MOTH 


"The  only  time  I  ever  tasted  it  before  was  in  Imam 
Zade  Jaffur,  nearly  two  years  ago,  and  I've  carried  the 
perfume  and  the  flavor  with  me  ever  since." 

"He  isn't  a  soldier,  Lucy,"  Vallie  broke  in;  "he's  a 
poet.  What  he  says  doesn't  rhyme,  but  that's  the  highest 
form  of  poetry." 

"Say  rather  an  epicure,  my  dear  Spencer,"  the  Cap- 
tain laughed;  "for  poets  often  go  hungry,  and  I  never 
do." 

"Then  Persia  is  another  country  you've  been  in,'* 
Lucy  commented.  "Did  they  get  up  a  war  for  you 
there?" 

The  Captain  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed 
heartily.  "I  am  certainly  giving  you  a  jolly  good  chance 
at  me  this  evening,  even  when  I  try  to  escape,  for  as  a 
matter  of  fact  they  did  get  up  a  war  for  me,  and  I  passed 
through  some  of  the  most  curious  events  I  have  ever 
experienced." 

"You  aren't  going  to  stop  there,  are  you?"  Spencer 
demanded  as  the  speaker  paused. 

Auchester's  face  grew  serious.  "No,"  he  said  as  if 
deliberating,  "though  frankly  I  am  ashamed  so  to  have 
monopolized  the  conversation.  I  am  absurdly  sensitive 
to  odors,  and  these  rose-leaves  here  bring  back  two  days 
and  a  night  I  spent  in  Persia  of  which  I  can't  help  telling 
you,  if  you  don't  mind  listening." 

"Please  go  on,"  Lucy  insisted,  leaning  forward  eagerly 
with  her  chin  resting  upon  her  hands.  "Is  it  the  story  of 
another  Desdemona  who  'loved  you  for  the  dangers  you 
had  passed,'  or  is  it  of  'moving  accidents  by  flood  and 
field'?" 

"There  is  no  Desdemona  in  my  story,"  he  replied 
quietly,  "but  rather 

[20] 


THE    MOTH 


'  Tis  a  Chequer-Board  of  Nights  and  Days 
Where  Destiny  with  Men  for  Pieces  plays: 
Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  mates,  and  slays, 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays! 

Don't  call  me  a  poet  again,  Spencer,  —  but  I  do  happen 
to  know  my  Omar." 

"  Please  go  on ! "  Lucy  still  insisted.    "  This  is  splendid ! " 

"It  was  almost  two  years  ago,"  the  Captain  began.  "I 
was  in  Persia  simply  as  a  traveler,  when,  as  Mrs.  Spencer 
says,  they  arranged  this  little  war  for  me.  Since  then, 
of  course,  Persia  has  attracted  the  sympathy  of  the  world 
because  of  Russia's  duplicity  and  my  own  country's 
failure  to  do  her  duty,  but  at  that  time  the  only  war-cloud 
on  the  horizon  was  raised  by  the  attempt  of  the  ex-Shah, 
Mohammed  Ali  Mirza,  to  regain  his  lost  sovereignty. 
There  is  nothing  of  interest  in  the  part  I  took  in  the 
defense.  What  I  want  to  tell  you  about  is  the  capture 
of  Arshad-ed-Dowleh,  the  leader  of  Mohammed  Ali's 
broken  army. 

"The  company  of  which  I  was  a  temporary  member  was 
stationed  at  Teheran.  We  received  news  of  fighting,  and 
were  ordered  out  as  reinforcements,  leaving  the  city  by 
the  Shah  Abdul  Azim  gate  about  six  o'clock  on  a  hot  Sep- 
tember morning,  with  forty  miles  of  dusty  road  between 
us  and  our  destination.  Just  before  sunset  we  reached 
Imam  Zade  Jaffur,  and  found  the  fighting  over,  with 
troops  of  singing,  happy  Bakhtiari  tumbling  over  each 
other  as  they  swarmed  into  camp.  The  news  of  the  day 
was  that  Arshad-ed-Dowleh,  the  commander-in-chief,  had 
been  captured,  and  I  hastened  to  the  tent  where  he  was 
said  to  be. 

"The  fallen  leader  was  sitting  on  a  rug,  drinking  tea, 
[21] 


THE    MOTH 


smoking  cigarettes  with  his  captors,  and  tasting  that  rose 
conserve  from  a  small  jar  before  him.  I  had  seen  a  photo- 
graph of  him  at  Teheran,  in  which  he  wore  a  gorgeous 
uniform,  with  his  breast  covered  with  medals.  Now  I 
saw  him  clad  in  a  red-striped  Turcoman  shirt  and  a  pair 
of  European  dress  trousers,  —  relics,  perhaps,  of  his  life 
in  Vienna.  One  foot  was  bare,  and  the  bandage  showed 
that  he  had  been  wounded. 

"He  greeted  me  in  French,  as  if  I  had  been  an  old  friend. 
Outwardly  there  were  no  evidences  that  he  felt  concern 
over  his  capture,  yet  the  piercing  glance  he  gave  me  showed 
that  he  was  striving  to  read  in  each  new  face  the  fate  that 
was  in  store  for  him.  Poor  chap!  I  couldn't  help  feeling 
sympathy,  for  I  knew  that  the  decree  had  already  gone 
forth  that  he  was  to  be  executed  the  next  morning.  It 
really  couldn't  be  otherwise,  for  only  the  day  before  he 
himself  had  ordered  the  execution  in  cold  blood  of  a 
Bakhtiari  Khan  who  had  fallen  into  his  hands,  and  he 
was  a  dangerous  rebel  fighting  against  the  government 
of  his  country. 

"Then  began  the  most  remarkable  game  between  him 
and  his  captors  that  I  have  ever  seen.  He  was  treated 
as  an  honored  guest,  no  suggestion  being  given  him  that 
his  fate  had  been  decided,  and  he  too  proud  to  question. 
There  he  lay,  resting  on  his  elbow,  apparently  quite  at 
his  ease  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  candles,  conversing 
with  his  captors  in  that  complimentary  language  which 
in  Persia  only  the  most  intimate  friends  employ,  one  with 
the  other,  —  talking  against  time,  in  an  effort  to  win 
their  sympathy.  He  was  the  most  eloquent  of  all,  speaking 
freely  of  the  fight  of  the  day  before,  of  his  life  and  that  of 
his  master  Mohammed  AH  since  they  had  been  in  exile, 
of  the  diploma  he  had  won  as  a  result  of  his  military  studies 

[22] 


THE    MOTH 


in  Vienna,  and  of  the  future  of  Persia,  —  and  all  the  while 
behind  him,  in  the  shadow,  stood  the  silent  Bakhtiari, 
leaning  on  their  rifles,  laughing  with  him  when  he  joked, 
listening  attentively  when  he  was  serious.  There  was  no 
man  present  who  did  not  feel  the  drama  of  the  night. 

" '  Istiklal-i-Iran  na  miravad,'  said  Arshad-ed-Dowleh. 
'The  independence  of  Persia  will  never  march.  The 
Russians  are  too  strong  for  you  and  the  people  are  too 
foolish.  Progress  does  not  lie  that  way.  You  call  me  a 
mujtabed,  a  friend  of  despotism.  You  call  yourselves 
liberals,  democrats,  socialists.  But  progress  is  something 
apart  from  all  these  labels,  and  I,  too,  want  progress  for 
my  country.' 

"When  it  became  late,  a  suggestion  was  made  to  put 
out  the  lights,  but  he  intuitively  did  not  wish  the  sitting 
to  be  ended. 

"'This  talk  is  better  than  old  wine,'  he  said.  'Why 
should  we  sleep?  I  have  loved  you  from  afar,  and  now 
that  we  have  met  it  is  good  to  be  with  you.' 

"They  told  him  that  the  hour  was  late  and  that  the 
morning  start  would  be  early. 

"Do  not  leave  me  alone,'  he  entreated,  'for  your  men 
used  ill  words  when  they  captured  me  today.' 

"They  shall  do  so  no  more,'  said  Colonel  Yeprem; 
'you  shall  sleep  here,  close  beside  me,  and  no  one  shall 
come  near  you  in  the  night.' 

"In  the  morning  I  found  him  seated  in  a  chair  on  the 
same  spot  where  we  had  conversed  the  night  before. 
Colonel  Yeprem  told  him,  very  gently,  that  he  must  die, 
for  the  State  dared  not  let  him  live.  He  received  the  news 
without  the  slightest  evidence  of  emotion,  simply  asking 
for  paper  that  he  might  write  a  letter  to  his  wife,  who  was 
a  royal  princess.  He  wrote  with  a  steady  hand,  gave  the 

[23] 


THE    MOTH 


letter  to  the  Colonel,  then  rose  deliberately  and  with  great' 
dignity.  The  speech  that  he  made,  standing  there  in  the 
close  shadow  of  death,  was  the  most  superb  exhibition  of 
courage  and  patriotism  which  I  have  ever  witnessed. 
Caution  was  now  thrown  to  the  winds  as  he  delivered  a 
masterly  indictment  of  the  constitutional  government. 
Using  the  French  Revolution  and  the  history  of  England 
as  illustrations,  he  scathingly  arraigned  the  poor  achieve- 
ments which  followed  fine  promises.  He  pictured  the 
condition  of  the  Persian  peasant,  touching  his  hearers 
deeply.  He  indicted  as  enemies  of  Persia  and  hired  ser- 
vants of  Russia  the  entire  Kajar  family,  excepting  only 
his  master  Mohammed  Ali,  who,  he  said,  lost  his  power 
because  he  refused  foreign  dictation.  He  took  up  the 
departments  of  State  and  pointed  out  that  in  none  had 
reform  been  established.  'And  why?'  he  demanded. 
'  Because  wre  are  still  fighting  for  our  lives  against  intrigue 
on  every  hand.  And  you  who  say  that  you  are  lovers  of 
your  country  —  is  it  patriotic  to  promote  revolution  at 
the  moment  when  we  are  straining  for  reform  and  the 
independence  of  Iran?' 

"In  closing  his  speech  he  thanked  God  that  he  had 
always  been  vatanparast,  a  man  who  worshiped  his  coun- 
try. He  commended  his  soul  to  Heaven,  asked  that  his 
body  be  delivered  to  his  wife,  and  that  the  gold  chain 
which  he  wore  around  his  neck  should  be  buried  with 
him.  Then  the  firing  party  appeared  and  halted  before 
him.  He  ceased  speaking  and  turned  to  them  without  a 
moment's  hesitation.  Between  the  files,  he  marched  with 
them  for  perhaps  forty  yards.  They  placed  him  ten 
yards  in  front,  where  he  stood  erect,  unbound  and  with- 
iout  a  sign  of  fear.  When  the  command  'Ready'  was 
given,  he  stood  even  a  little  straighter,  and  shouted, 

[24] 


THE    MOTH 


'Zindabad  Vatan,  —  long  live  my  country!  Fire!'  The 
volley  rang  out.  He  fell,  then  rose  to  one  knee.  The 
second  section  fired,  and  all  was  over." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  at  the  table  when  Auchester 
finished  his  narration.  Tense  emotion  had  rarely  been 
felt  by  Spencer  or  by  Lucy,  and  both  were  deeply  affected. 
Then  Auchester  rose  deliberately,  standing  erect  and 
seeming  of  even  greater  stature  than  his  height  war- 
ranted. He  lifted  his  champagne  glass: 

"Here  in  this  far-away  country,  my  friends,  with  the 
odor  of  that  rose-leaf  conserve  in  the  air  and  its  delicious 
flavor  upon  your  lips,  drink  with  me  to  Arshad-ed-Dowleh, 
—  the  bravest  soldier  I  have  ever  known." 


[25] 


Ill 


CUNNINGHAM  was  more  meditative  than  usual 
as  he  dined  with  his  wife  after  his  return  home 
from  the  Spencers'.  It  was  customary  for  coffee  to 
be  served  in  the  library,  whither  they  always  adjourned 
after  dinner:  he  frequently  to  work  out  some  problem 
connected  with  his  law  cases,  Margaret  reading  beside  him, 
the  evening's  silence  being  occasionally  broken  by  a  dis- 
cussion of  some  topic  of  mutual  interest,  of  which  they 
had  many.  They  never  felt  that  continued  conversation 
was  essential  to  their  happiness,  and  to  that  extent  had 
learned  what  life  imparts  to  few.  For  what  are  words  ex- 
cept the  medium  ordinarily  required  to  convey  what  is 
imperfectly  expressed  without  their  aid?  But  if  two 
hearts,  understanding,  require  such  medium  to  commune 
each  with  the  other,  then  it  is  certain  that  the  imperfec- 
tion extends  beyond  its  natural  bounds. 

As  Cunningham  took  his  customary  seat  at  his  writing- 
table  and  drew  a  cigar  from  the  jar  near  at  hand,  Margaret 
watched  him  attentively.  He  lit  the  match  mechanically 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  not  heeding  the  maid  who 
stood  beside  him. 

"Don't  you  care  for  your  coffee?"  Margaret  asked. 

"Of  course!"  he  replied,  turning  quickly.  "I  didn't 
notice  that  it  was  here." 

[26] 


THE    MOTH 


Margaret  took  a  step  forward  as  the  maid  left  the  room, 
and  leaned  against  the  arm  of  the  great  chair. 

"Tired  tonight?"  she  asked.  "That  Montgomery  case 
is  pulling  on  you  more  and  more." 

"No,  dear,"  he  answered;  "it  isn't  that  just  now. 
It's  another  case,  which,  in  a  way,  is  just  as  serious. 
There's  a  woman  in  it." 

"A  woman!"  she  echoed  lightly;  "that  should  make  it 
interesting." 

"I'm  not  joking,  Peggy,"  he  replied  seriously.  "The 
woman  is  Lucy  Spencer,  and  it  isn't  a  case  for  a  lawyer. 
She  needs  a  mother  and  a  good  sound  spanking." 

Margaret  laughed.  "What  madcap  prank  has  Lucy 
been  up  to  now?" 

"It  isn't  what  she  has  done  so  much  as  what  I  fear  she 
may  do,"  Cunningham  answered.  Margaret  waited  for 
him  to  continue.  "I  wish  you  liked  her  better,"  he 
exclaimed  suddenly.  "She  needs  some  one  who  can  talk 
to  her  more  plainly  than  a  man  can;  and  you  are  just 
the  one  to  do  it  if  you  will." 

"How  long  do  you  think  Lucy  Spencer  would  take  any 
one's  advice  if  it  didn't  fit  in  with  her  own  fancy?" 
Margaret  asked. 

"It  would  have  to  be  done  diplomatically,  of  course," 
Cunningham  admitted;  "but  Heaven  knows  she  needs 
it." 

"Don't  you  think  you're  treading  on  dangerous 
ground?"  she  asked  pointedly. 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  protested;  "what  could  be  dangerous 
about  it?" 

"She's  flirting  with  you  desperately,  Ned,  and  —  she's 
a  married  woman." 

"She  flirts  with  every  one  she  happens  to  like,  if  that 
[27] 


THE    MOTH 


is  what  you  call  it;  but  she  hasn't  the  slightest  idea  in 
the  world  of  the  risk  she  runs.  She's  nothing  but  a  child, 
and  ought  to  have  a  guardian." 

"In  place  of  which  she  has  a  husband." 

"  Vallie  is  a  fool.  It  amuses  him  to  have  Lucy  turn  the 
head  of  every  man  she  meets.  He  jokes  about  it." 

"And  you  want  me  to  become  her  cicerone?  " 

"No;  but  I  wish  you  could  give  her  a  chance  to  see 
how  rational  women  really  act." 

"She  doesn't  care  for  other  women;  I've  heard  her 
say  so." 

"Because  other  women  look  askance  at  her,"  Cunning- 
ham replied.  "She  enjoys  shocking  them,  and  they 
encourage  her  in  it  by  being  shocked." 

"When  is  she  going  to  the  shore?" 

"Thursday." 

"I'll  run  in  tomorrow  afternoon  to  say  goodbye.  It  is 
a  fairly  delicate  mission  which  you  name  me  for,"  she 
smiled,  "but  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  help  you  in  any  effort 
for  reform." 

"Don't  make  sport  of  me,  Peggy,"  Cunningham  pro- 
tested earnestly.  "I  couldn't  talk  like  this  to  any  one 
except  you;  but  I  really  do  feel  that  child  on  my  con- 
science. Lucy  has  a  lot  of  good  stuff  in  her,  and  she's 
more  of  a  woman  than  she  would  be  willing  to  admit. 
You  understand.  This  is  a  chance  to  do  some  real  mis- 
sionary work,  and  it's  worth  the  effort." 

He  was  right  when  he  said  that  his  wife  understood 
him,  and  happy  is  the  man  of  whom  this  may  be  said! 
Born  and  brought  up  in  Boston  under  rigid  influences 
inherited  straight  from  the  Puritans,  Cunningham  re- 
flected their  principles  in  thought  and  deed.  His  father 
would  have  died  a  martyr  rather  than  yield  to  the  perni- 

[281 


THE    MOTH 


cious  compromise  with  Satan,  which  was  all  he  saw  in 
any  progress  of  the  times;  his  mother,  while  less  assertive 
echoed  her  husband's  ideas  like  a  mirror,  which  reflects 
only  what  is  placed  before  it.  Perhaps  Margaret  under- 
stood her  husband  better  because  she  came  into  the  family 
before  the  old  people  passed  away,  ,.  ad  compared  to 
them,  Ned  was  a  radical. 

Being  of  a  later  generation,  it  was  natur  il  that  his  ideas 
should  be  somewhat  tempered  by  the  more  modern  envi- 
ronment, but  it  was  really  Margaret  who  had  effected  the 
change  which  made  him  human.  She  loved  him  for  his 
strict  adherence  to  principle,  but  without  his  realization  she 
taught  him  that  a  principle  may  be  elastic  without  losing 
its  integrity.  She  was  proud  of  his  prominence  in  all 
movements  for  civic  uplift,  and  brought  him  to  a  point 
where  hecould  accomplish  results  impossible  had  he  rigidly 
adhered  to  the  creed  he  had  assimilated  from  his  father. 

But  Margaret,  with  all  her  quiet,  helpful  influence, 
could  not  change  in  him  that  didactic  characteristic 
which  had  made  ten  generations  of  Cunninghams 
leaders  in  their  respective  spheres.  He  was  a  man  who 
apperceived  rather  than  perceived,  and  because  he 
knew  that  he  knew  he  assumed  certain  prerogatives 
which  the  man  who  only  knows  would  scarcely  dare. 
Some  women  would  have  been  surprised  to  have  a  hus- 
band manifest  so  tense  an  interest  in  another  man's 
wife;  Margaret  understood.  He  could  no  more  see 
weaknesses  in  his  friends  without  assuming  the  respon- 
sibility of  rectification  than  he  could  allow  misrepre- 
sentation in  his  profession  to  go  unchallenged.  Those 
who  knew  Edward  Cunningham  learned  to  understand 
and  appreciate  him;  others  were  bound  to  give  him 
their  respect. 

[29] 


THE    MOTH 


The  following  Sunday  found  the  Cunninghams  with 
the  problem  of  selecting  a  destination  for  their  afternoon's 
motor  ride. 

"Why  not  run  down  to  the  Spencers'?"  Margaret 
suggested.  "They  must  be  settled  enough  to  see  us  by 
this  time,  and  I  promised  Lucy  we  would  motor  down  as 
soon  as  possible." 

Cunningham  looked  at  his  wife  gratefully.  "You're 
a  sweet  girl,  Peggy,"  he  said.  "There  aren't  many  wives 
who  would  take  up  a  case  like  this.  That's  what  I  call 
being  a  good  sport." 

"If  it  has  to  be  done  I'm  sure  that  it  is  wiser  for  me  to 
undertake  it  than  for  you,"  she  said  smiling;  "but 
truly,  it  isn't  such  a  hardship  as  you  try  to  make  it  out. 
Lucy  always  amuses  me.  Until  now,  I  haven't  felt  any 
responsibility,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I  shan't  enjoy  the 
experience.  It's  certain  to  be  interesting." 

"Oh,  what  a  ride!"  Margaret  exclaimed  after  the  car 
left  Lynn  and  its  cobblestone  streets  behind  them  and 
swept  on  into  the  Shore  Drive.  "Who  ever  saw  such 
variety?  I  never  tire  of  it!" 

It  was  always  an  aggravation  to  turn  away  from  Marble- 
head  town,  for  they  both  loved  its  quaint  streets  and 
picturesque  buildings,  but  even  had  their  destination 
not  been  settled,  Salem,  suggestive  of  witches  and  times 
long  since  gone  by,  would  have  lured  them  on.  Then  the 
panorama  became  modernized  again  as  the  old  with  its 
Spartan  simplicity  gave  way  to  the  new  with  its  princely 
expression  of  present  luxury.  No  wonder  that  Margaret 
reveled  in  its  variety!  From  the  moment  the  grim  little 
church  at  Beverly  is  passed,  each  estate  seems  vying  with 
the  others  for  beauty  of  location  and  stateliness  of  archi- 
tecture. Through  Beverly  Cove  and  Pride's  Crossing 

[30] 


THE    MOTH 


to  the  Farms  are  mingled  counterparts  of  the  villas  of 
Italy  and  the  chateaux  of  France,  the  country  estates  of 
Old  England  and  the  colonial  Georgian  style  of  the  New; 
yet  in  spite  of  the  magnificence,  each  house  is  made 
to  fit  into  the  shore  foliage  as  if  a  part  of  the  picturesque 
coast  line  itself.  Here,  with  a  sprinkling  of  Western 
families,  and  of  the  diplomatic  corps,  Boston  luxuriates 
during  the  summer  months. 

All  too  soon  the  motor  drew  up  at  the  Spencers'.  Vallie 
was  sitting  disconsolate  by  himself  on  the  piazza,  smoking 
a  cigarette,  and  he  welcomed  the  callers  as  an  answer  to 
his  unexpressed  prayer  to  be  relieved  of  his  ennui. 

"Every  one  is  off  doing  something  with  somebody 
else,"  he  lamented  as  he  helped  Margaret  from  the 
tonneau.  "We  are  down  too  late  again  this  year.  Lucy 
is  unpacking;  I'll  call  her." 

"Let  me  run  in  and  surprise  her,"  Margaret  cried, 
"while  you  and  Ned  visit  here  on  the  piazza." 

Lucy  was  indeed  unpacking.  Margaret  found  her  in 
the  large  living-room  leading  from  the  hallway  seated 
on  the  floor,  an  open  trunk  before  her  and  with  gowns, 
stockings,  and  every  variety  of  feminine  attire  thrown 
about  in  reckless  profusion. 

"You  dear  thing!"  she  cried  as  Margaret  discovered 
her. 

"  Why  in  the  world  are  you  unpacking  down  stairs?" 
was  the  surprised  query. 

"  Look  at  the  size  of  the  trunk,"  she  said.  "  They 
don't  make  men  on  the  North  Shore  strong  enough  to 
carry  one  like  that.  I  had  no  idea  you  would  come 
down  so  soon.  Did  Ned  make  you?" 

"He  threatened  to  beat  me  if  I  didn't,"  laughed 
Margaret. 

[311 


THE    MOTH 


Lucy  was  serious  at  once.  "Tell  me,"  she  asked,  "is 
Ned  really  disagreeable  like  that  at  times?" 

"Of  course,"  Margaret  replied.  "Don't  I  show  signs 
of  it?" 

"No,"  Lucy  continued  in  the  same  subdued  tone;  "but 
he  told  me  once  that  that  was  what  I  needed,  and — ' 

Margaret  laughed  outright.  "You  had  better  look 
out;  he  never  warns  but  once!" 

"You're  joking,  I  know  you  are."  Lucy's  spirits  re- 
vived at  once.  "But  anyhow,  it  is  sweet  of  you  to  come 
down  so  soon.  —  Who's  that?" 

There  were  unmistakable  sounds  of  voices  on  the 
piazza.  "I'm  afraid  Mrs.  Spencer  can't  see  you,"  Vallie 
was  saying;  "she's  in  the  midst  of  her  trunks.  I'll  ask 
her." 

"Isn't  Vallie  the  cutest  little  liar?"  Lucy  said  to 
Margaret  in  a  low  whisper.  "He  knows  perfectly  well 
that  this  is  the  only  trunk  I  ever  unpack  myself. " 

"It's  Mrs.  Channing,  Lucy,"  Spencer  announced  as  he 
entered  the  room.  "  Can  you  see  her?  " 

Lucy's  lips  settled  firmly  together  as  she  turned  to  Mar- 
garet. "The  old  cat!"  she  whispered.  "This  is  a  visit 
of  inspection,  and  she  couldn't  even  wait  a  decent  length 
of  time  after  we  came  down.  Her  daughters  were  running 
in  here  a  lot  at  the  end  of  last  season,  and  she  wishes  to 
see  whether  I  am  so  impossible  as  to  imperil  their  delicate 
young  lives.  Sweet  of  her,  isn't  it?  Yes,  Vallie,  show 
Medusa  in;  she  can't  turn  me  into  stone." 

With  a  sudden  slide  Lucy  resumed  her  position  on  the 
floor  amidst  the  gowns  and  the  lingerie. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  going  to  do?"  Margaret 
demanded,  astonished  by  her  sudden  action.  "She'll  be 
in  here  before  you  can  get  up." 

[32] 


THE    MOTH 


"Never  you  mind,"  was  the  determined  answer. 
"Just  keep  your  eyes  on  Lucy." 

A  moment  later  Vallie  reappeared,  escorting  a  woman  of 
perhaps  sixty  years.  In  figure  she  was  comfortably  stout; 
her  face  was  plain  but  intellectually  strong  and  full  of 
individuality;  her  bearing  seemed  to  indicate  a  mild 
degree  of  uncertainty  regarding  the  propriety  of  her 
call,  —  an  attitude  perhaps  justified  by  the  chaotic  con- 
dition of  the  room  into  which  she  was  conducted.  Her 
black  silk  dress  was  elegant  in  its  simplicity;  she  wore 
her  hair  in  that  fashion  which  for  nearly  half  a  century 
has  prevailed  in  Boston  amongst  those  elderly  persons 
whose  social  position  makes  it  possible  for  them  to  take 
revenge  on  their  past.  The  bonnet  was  of  a  much  more 
recent  vintage;  in  fact,  it  was  the  latest  style,  —  for  a 
bonnet.  As  the  full  scene  spread  itself  before  Mrs. 
Channing  she  drew  back  for  an  instant,  amazement 
showing  on  her  face  and  indecision  in  her  footsteps. 

"How  good  of  you  to  call,  dear  Mrs.  Channing,"  Lucy 
exclaimed  with  a  world  of  welcome,  struggling  to  rise,  but 
succeeding  only  in  reaching  a  kneeling  position.  "You 
must  forgive  me  for  letting  you  come  in  among  all  this 
clutter,  but  I  did  want  so  much  to  see  you.  Of  course 
you  know  Mrs.  Cunningham.  Margaret  dear,  please 
make  room  for  Mrs.  Channing  beside  you.  You  will 
forgive  me  for  being  so  unceremonious?" 

"It  is  my  own  fault  for  coming  so  soon,"  the  visitor 
said  magnanimously.  "  My  daughters  speak  of  you  often, 
and  I  intended  to  call  all  last  summer." 

"I'm  sure  you  did,"  Lucy  beamed,  "but  the  summers 
get  shorter  and  shorter,  don't  they?" 

"They  do,"  Mrs.  Channing  assented,  relieved  by  the 
quick  understanding.  "I  often  make  that  same  remark 
3  [33] 


THE    MOTH 


to  my  husband.  This  year  I  was  determined  that  nothing 
should  interfere;  but  had  I  known  — ' 

"I  beg  of  you!"  protested  Lucy.  "It  is  I  who  should 
apologize  for  my  poor  housekeeping  in  that  we  are  not 
settled.  We've  been  here  three  whole  days  and  I've  only 
just  reached  this  pet  trunk  of  mine." 

While  her  hostess'  conversation  ran  on  inconsequently, 
Mrs.  Channing's  eye  wandered  over  the  various  articles 
which  were  exposed  to  view,  and  finally  settled  again  upon 
the  vivacious  speaker.  The  round  trip  was  completed  just 
in  time,  for  Lucy  looked  up  as  she  asked  a  question. 

"What  kind  of  a  season  do  you  think  we  shall  have 
this  year?" 

"Oh,  about  as  usual,  I  dare  say,"  was  the  quick 
response.  "Of  course  your  idea  of  the  season  is  quite 
different  from  what  mine  is,  but  I  dare  say  it  will  be  about 
as  usual." 

"Dear  me!"  Lucy  showed  much  concern.  "You  speak 
as  if  our  seasons  were  terribly  stupid  affairs.  I've  found 
them  most  enjoyable." 

"I  don't  say  that  I  haven't  found  them  enjoyable,"  Mrs. 
Channing  corrected;  "but  naturally  my  idea  of  pleasure 
is  quite  different  from  that  of  a  young  woman  like  you." 
""Of  course,"  Lucy  admitted  promptly;  "but  you  are 
with  your  daughters  so  much,  and  their  ideas  are  not  so 
far  from  mine,  are  they?" 

"I  should  hope — !  Mrs.  Channing  caught  herself 
before  the  sentence  was  complete.  "My  daughters  are 
naturally  very  quiet  in  their  tastes  except  when  they  are 
influenced  by  others." 

Lucy  smiled  cheerfully,  but  her  amusement  came  from 
her  own  thoughts  rather  than  from  the  remark  she  had 
just  heard.  She  saw  before  her  at  that  moment  two  active 

[34] 


THE    MOTH 


girls,  eager  for  the  opportunity  to  express  themselves  nor- 
mally, yet  partially  suppressed  by  the  puritanic  atmos- 
phere in  which  they  lived.  She  recalled  some  of  their 
conversations,  and  wondered  how  long  the  atmosphere 
would  succeed  in  predominating  over  nature  itself.  There 
was  too  much  sympathy  in  Lucy's  heart  to  permit  her  to 
speak  her  thoughts  aloud.  What  she  said  was:  "Yes,  I 
know  what  dear,  good  girls  they  are;  but  surely  you  don't 
object  to  their  love  of  horses  and  golf  and  tennis,  and 
things  like  that.  They  must  have  some  excitement." 

"Young  girls  need  no  excitement,"  was  the  flat  con- 
tradiction. "I  suppose  it  is  too  late  to  stop  this  athletic 
notion  which  they  all  have,  but  it  is  simply  aping  the  men 
and  I  don't  like  it.  No  one  thought  of  such  a  thing  when 
I  first  came  down  here,  and  why  should  it  be  any  more 
necessary  now?" 

"Aren't  the  estates  much  more  beautiful  now  than  they 
were  then?"  Lucy  inquired.  "Hasn't  much  been  done 
to  make  them  more  attractive?" 

"Why,  yes!"  replied  Mrs.  Channing,  not  catching  the 
drift  of  the  questions. 

"Then  why  isn't  it  natural  that  the  people  and  the  life 
they  lead  should  have  become  more  attractive?" 

The  caller  was  vexed  to  find  her  hostess  combating  her 
opinions.  Most  of  Mrs.  Channing's  acquaintances  either 
acquiesced  or  held  their  peace.  Her  annoyance  took  the 
form  of  making  her  comments  more  personal  in  their 
application  and  less  veiled. 

"Excitement  is  not  necessary  to  beautify  estates  or 
to  make  people  more  attractive,"  she  insisted.  "The 
nervous  unrest  which  some  of  the  cottagers  have  intro- 
duced during  the  past  few  years  is  certainly  prejudicial 
to  the  place  and  to  all  who  live  here." 

[35] 


"You  don't  suppose  she  includes  us  among  the  nervously 
restless,  do  you,  Margaret?"  Lucy  asked,  with  so  fasci- 
nating a  smile  that  no  one  could  think  her  serious. 

"I  have  no  intention  of  making  any  personal  appli- 
cation," was  the  disclaimer,  so  expressed  that  it  served 
to  emphasize  the  previous  suggestion  into  a  fact.  "Of 
course  we  realize  that  there  is  a  certain  element  here  who 
think  that  the  summer  gives  them  a  license  to  lead  a  life 
more  unrestrained  than  even  they  would  dare  to  live  in 
the  city.  Naturally  we  who  knew  the  place  before  they 
changed  it  look  upon  this  as  an  unfortunate  innovation; 
but  I  have  no  intention  of  mentioning  any  names." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  quiet  enough,"  Lucy  said  demurely,  as 
if  thinking.  "See  how  domestic  I  am!  I'll  wager  that 
there  isn't  another  woman  on  the  North  Shore  who 
unpacks  even  one  of  her  own  trunks.  Of  course  I  never 
pack  anything  but  my  cigarette  case  and  the  cocktail 
shaker,  but  it's  something  to  do  the  unpacking,  isn't  it?" 

She  looked  slyly  over  at  Margaret  as  Mrs.  Channing 
straightened  up  and  audibly  sniffed,  but  the  wrords  were 
spoken  so  innocently  that  it  was  difficult  for  her  caller 
even  to  manifest  disapproval.  Dignity,  moreover,  forbade, 
and  discretion  suggested  another  topic  of  conversation. 

"I  really  feel  very  much  concerned  over  the  trend  of 
modern  times,"  Mrs.  Channing  said;  "everything  moves 
with  such  terrific  pace.  The  younger  generation  look 
upon  it  as  the  natural  thing,  and  we  who  can  draw  com- 
parisons must  save  them  from  the  awful  rush.  Driving 
is  ruined  by  the  automobiles,  and  still  more  so  by  the 
motor-cycles  —  road-lice  I  call  them.  We  are  shot 
through  the  ground  in  tunnels,  men  fly  in  the  air,  we  re- 
ceive messages  out  of  nothing,  and  they  say  that  soon  we 
can  communicate  with  each  other  without  speaking." 

[30] 


THE    MOTH 


"But  all  this  is  progress,  isn't  it?"  Margaret  asked 
suggestively. 

"I  suppose  it  is.  We  can't  object  to  that  even  if  we 
don't  like  it;  but  the  influence  on  the  people  themselves 
is  the  worst  of  all :  even  the  women  now  smoke  and  drink, 
and  every  one  breaks  the  Sabbath." 

"Why  did  you  speak  of  smoking?"  Lucy  demanded. 
"I've  been  perishing  for  a  cigarette,  and  I  didn't  like  to 
suggest  it.  I  haven't  had  one  all  day.  You  see  I  found 
that  the  smoke  irritated  my  throat,  so  now  I  never  indulge 
until  afternoon." 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  enjoying  yourself,"  Mrs. 
Channing  said  stiffly. 

Lucy  almost  disappeared  in  the  trunk  as  her  caller 
spoke,  and  triumphantly  produced  the  silver  case.  "That 
is  so  sweet  of  you,"  she  smiled  gratefully,  holding  it  out 
to  Mrs.  Channing.  "I  don't  suppose  there  is  any  use  in 
asking  you  to  take  one?  They're  very  good." 

"I  thank  you,  no." 

"Mrs.  Cunningham  is  old-fashioned  too,  so  I  must 
smoke  alone,"  she  continued,  lighting  the  cigarette  and 
leaning  comfortably  against  the  trunk.  "After  all,  you 
don't  need  it  as  much  as  those  of  us  who  have  excitement. 
Although  I  am  so  quiet  myself,  I  do  have  a  certain  amount 
of  that  from  being  thrown  more  or  less  with  the  people  you 
describe,  and  I  find  that  smoking  is  very  soothing  to  the 
nerves.  You  must  admit  that,  with  the  best  intentions,  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  prevent  excitement  from  entering 
into  even  a  commonplace  existence." 

"If  the  present  generation  finds  it  so  indispensable," 
snapped  Mrs.  Channing,  "what  in  the  world  is  going  to 
happen  to  the  next?  Even  the  children  today  are  blase 
and  sophisticated;  by  another  generation  nothing  less 

137] 


THE    MOTH 


than  murder  will  give  them  the  thrill  of  excitement  which 
they  used  to  receive  from  their  nursery  games.  I  don't 
know  where  it  is  going  to  end." 

Lucy  laughed.  "  You  make  me  shudder  for  my  innocent 
bairns,"  she  said.  Then  her  eye  rested  on  something 
inside  the  trunk,  and  again  she  reached  within  its  capa- 
cious depths,  this  time  producing  a  silver  cocktail  shaker. 
"There  it  is!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  really  thought  I  had 
forgotten  where  I  packed  it.  Isn't  it  unique  ? "  holding 
it  up  as  she  spoke.  "Do  you  take  cocktails?" 

Mrs.  Channing's  face  became  still  more  firmly  set.  "I 
do  not  smoke,"  she  said  pointedly;  "neither  do  I  drink." 

"What  a  pity!"  Lucy's  laugh  rippled  merrily.  "For- 
give me  for  laughing,  but  for  a  moment  I  thought  you  were 
quoting  from  the  Bible:  'it  toils  not  neither  does  it  spin.' 
Silly  of  me,  isn't  it?  But  seriously,  it  is  too  bad  that  you 
don't  take  cocktails,  for  Vallie  —  Mr.  Spencer  —  can  mix 
them  in  three  different  languages.  Margaret  dear,  why 
do  we  keep  on  talking  about  things  which  don't  interest 
Mrs.  Channing?  She'll  gain  a  wretched  impression  of 
you  if  you  don't  suggest  some  sensible  topic  of  conversa- 
tion. Suppose  I  show  her  some  of  my  new  gowns.  Would 
you  like  to  see  them?" 

"I  must  be  going—  "  the  caller  began. 

"Not  when  Mrs.  Spencer  is  about  to  show  us  some  of 
these  wonderful  creations,  I  am  sure,"  Margaret  urged,  too 
much  amused  to  be  willing  to  have  the  entertainment 
come  so  soon  to  an  end. 

Lucy  did  not  wait  for  Mrs.  Channing's  acquiescence, 
but  drew  from  the  trunk  gown  after  gown  until  she  found 
the  one  she  wished  to  show. 

"Isn't  it  a  dream!"  she  demanded,  standing  erect  and 
holding  it  against  her  body.  "Vallie  thinks  it's  too  de- 

[38] 


THE    MOTH 


collete  for  the  city,  but  I  thought  I  might  get  a  chance 
to  wear  it  down  here." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  make  that  distinction," 
Mrs.  Channing  said  testily.  "It  seems  well  suited  for 
any  one  with  your  figure." 

"Of  course,"  Lucy  admitted.  "A  woman  has  to  think 
of  that,  always,  doesn't  she?  Most  of  the  women  one 
sees  in  decollete  gowns  are  like  my  Kodak  films,  —  over- 
exposed and  under-developed.  But  isn't  it  a  dream!" 

"I  really  must  be  going,"  Mrs.  Channing  insisted,  rising 
with  determination. 

"Please  don't,"  Lucy  urged.  "It  doesn't  take  long  to 
wait  a  minute,  and  I  really  want  to  show  you  some  of  my 
new  lingerie.  Vallie  says  — 

"Good  afternoon,"  Mrs.  Channing  shouted  rather  than 
spoke.  "I  am  very  glad  to  have  found  you  at  home." 

"Well,  if  you  must  go,  of  course  I  can't  detain  you," 
Lucy  said  resignedly;  "but  it  has  been  such  a  joy  to  see 
you  that  I  can't  bear  to  let  you  go." 

"Good  afternoon,"  Mrs.  Channing  again  remarked, 
passing  through  the  door. 

"Goodbye,"  Lucy  called  sweetly  after  her.  "Do 
remember  me  to  your  daughters.  Vallie,  dear,  be 
careful  Mrs.  Channing  doesn't  fall  going  down  those 
steps. " 

She  turned  to  Margaret.  "There,"  she  said,  "perhaps 
that  will  give  her  something  to  think  over.  We've -been 
coming  down  here  for  five  years,  and  until  she  found  her 
ewe  lambs  in  danger  of  being  eaten  up  by  the  she-wolf,  she 
never  gave  a  sign  that  she  knew  I  existed.  The  girls  are 
really  very  nice  and  I  like  them,  but  —  deliver  me  from 
Mamma!  I  wish  I  could  have  thought  of  some  more 
ways  to  shock  her." 

[39] 


THE    MOTH 


"Don't  reproach  yourself,"  Margaret  reassured  her, 
wiping  from  her  eyes  the  tears  which  the  laughter  had 
brought.  "You  thought  of  enough.  Oh,  Lucy,  Lucy!" 
and  Margaret  buried  her  face  in  the  folds  of  the  gown 
thrown  carelessly  on  the  couch  beside  her,  convulsed  with 
a  paroxysm  of  laughter  which  she  no  longer  sought  to 
control. 


40] 


IV 


IN  the  practice  of  his  profession,  Edward  Cunningham 
held  an  enviable  reputation  for  his  legal  knowledge 
and  skill  and  for  his  eloquence  in  presenting  cases  to 
the  Court ;  and  here  again  might  be  found  the  expression 
of  his  high  professional  ideals.  His  sizing  up  of  the  situa- 
tion was  always  masterly,  the  logic  of  his  argument  con- 
vincing, and  his  own  confidence  in  the  righteousness  of  his 
cause  became  contagious  because  of  the  sincerity  with 
which  he  pleaded.  This,  in  part,  was  naturally  the  ex- 
pression of  his  art,  for  no  man  could  actually  so  assimilate 
the  responsibilities  of  his  clients  without  breaking  down  in 
the  process;  but  it  was  an  accepted  fact  among  his  fellow- 
lawyers  that  Cunningham  always  avoided,  if  possible, 
taking  causes  in  which  he  could  not  at  least  sympathize 
with  the  attitude  which  circumstances  forced  him  to  as- 
sume. It  was  for  this  reason  that  the  "Montgomery 
case,"  to  which  Margaret  had  alluded,  was,  as  she  said, 
"pulling  on"  him  more  and  more;  and  the  occasion  of 
his  anxiety  was  the  apparently  unsolvable  mystery  in 
which  the  case  was  shrouded. 

The  problem  as  it  stood  was  briefly  this:  Late  one 
evening  a  buggy  turned  into  the  main  street  of  one  of 
Boston's  suburbs,  and  continued  on  its  course  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  city.  There  was  nothing  about  the  vehicle 

141] 


THE    MOTH 


to  attract  unusual  attention  until  suddenly  an  expressman 
on  the  sidewalk  heard  two  shots  ring  out  in  fairly  close 
succession,  saw  two  distinct  flashes  of  light  proceed  from 
the  buggy,  and  heard  a  voice  cry  out,  "I  am  shot."  The 
reports  startled  the  horse  into  a  gallop,  and  the  carriage 
passed  beyond  the  view  of  the  man.  A  mile  further  on, 
in  crossing  a  bridge  over  a  railroad  track,  the  buggy  locked 
wheels  with  a  heavy  farm  team  coming  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  the  horse  was  stopped.  Inside  the  vehicle 
two  men  were  found,  —  one  dead,  the  other  badly 
wounded,  the  extraordinary  feature  of  the  shooting  being 
that  each  bullet  had  passed  through  its  victim's  body 
in  the  same  direction;  namely,  from  right  to  left. 

Montgomery,  the  wounded  man,  had  recovered,  and 
was  held  charged  with  the  murder  of  Brewster,  his  com- 
panion in  the  buggy.  In  its  early  development  the  case 
contained  so  many  contradictory  features,  and  its  im- 
portance in  the  public  mind  assumed  such  proportions, 
that  the  Attorney-General  felt  warranted  in  securing  the 
consent  of  the  Governor  and  Council  to  call  Cunningham 
to  assist  the  State  in  the  prosecution.  Montgomery  pro- 
tested his  innocence  and  denied  all  knowledge  of  the 
shooting.  He  claimed  that  the  first  shot  was  the  one 
which  wounded  him,  and  that  while  dimly  conscious  of 
hearing  a  second  shot,  his  own  condition  was  such  as  to 
make  him  unaware  of  all  that  happened  later.  The 
theory  that  the  shooting  had  been  done  by  some  one  un- 
known upon  the  street  had  been  abandoned,  as  the  ex- 
pressman who  heard  the  shots  came  forward  at  the  inquest 
with  his  statement  that  the  flashes  had  proceeded  from 
the  buggy,  and  he  proved  a  reliable  witness.  Montgomery 
was  sitting  on  the  right  hand  and  Brewster  on  the  left 
when  the  bodies  were  found.  From  this  position,  Mont- 

[42] 


gomery  could  have  fired  a  shot  taking  the  direction  shown 
by  the  wound  in  Brewster's  body;  but  nothing  as  yet  in 
the  hands  of  the  prosecution  showed  how  a  shot  could 
have  been  fired  to  pass  through  Montgomery  from  right 
to  left. 

Spencer  had  brought  the  case  into  the  conversation 
while  the  two  men  sat  on  the  piazza.  Cunningham  usually 
avoided  any  discussion  of  professional  questions  outside 
his  office,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  there  were  not  many 
subjects  he  could  discuss  with  Vallie.  Realizing  the 
limitation,  he  offered  no  objections  now  that  a  common 
ground  was  found. 

"Why  couldn't  Brewster  have  put  his  arm  around 
Montgomery,  behind  his  back?  That  seems  perfectly 
possible  to  me,"  Spencer  remarked  at  length. 

"He  could  have,  provided  Montgomery  would  let  him; 
but  he  couldn't  have  held  the  revolver  against  his  own 
side  in  such  a  way  as  to  have  had  the  bullet  take  the 
upward  course  it  did  unless  he  had  been  a  contortionist." 

"Oh,"  Spencer  replied  dubiously.  "That  rather  knocks 
out  my  theory,  doesn't  it?  " 

"I  believe  it  does.  If  Brewster  had  shot  Montgomery 
and  wished  to  commit  suicide  there  are  several  places 
he  would  have  selected  rather  than  underneath  his  right 
arm.  It's  a  complicated  mess." 

"I  was  telling  Captain  Auchester  about  it  last  week. 
He  was  much  interested  and  asked  a  lot  of  questions.  I 
thought  I  had  a  pretty  good  theory,  but  you've  knocked 
it  out." 

"Who  is  this  Captain  Auchester?"  Cunningham  asked 
abruptly. 

"Why,  you've  met  him,"  Spencer  replied,  surprised. 

"Yes,  barely,  —  but  who  is  he?" 
[43] 


THE    MOTH 


"I  don't  know,  except  what  I've  picked  up  about  him. 
Duncan  met  him  on  board  steamer.  Played  bridge  with 
him,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Then  he  got  him  cards 
to  his  clubs." 

"Does  Duncan  know  anything  about  him?" 

"I  suppose  he  does.  He  wouldn't  have  put  him  up  at 
the  clubs  if  he  hadn't,  would  he?" 

"Who  put  him  up  at  the  Badminton  Club?"  Cunning- 
ham persisted. 

Spencer  moved  uneasily  and  nervously  reached  for  a 
fresh  cigarette.  "Why,  —  I  did." 

"Yet  you  say  you  know  nothing  about  him." 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,  Ned.  What's  the  use  of  all  this 
catechizing?  I  put  him  up  at  the  Badminton  because  he's 
a  corking  fine  fellow,  and  I  knew  Duncan  wouldn't  have 
stood  for  him  if  he  hadn't  been  all  he  seemed." 

"That  man  Lewis  wasn't  'all  he  seemed,' "  Cunningham 
continued,  suggestively. 

"I  know  he  wasn't,  and  he  got  into  Peters,  who  put 
him  up,  just  as  much  as  he  did  into  the  others,"  Vallie 
chuckled  to  himself.  "That  was  really  a  rare  one  on 
poor  old  Peters.  He  hasn't  got  over  it  yet." 

"There  are  others,  who  contributed  liberally,  who  even 
yet  don't  fully  appreciate  the  joke,"  Cunningham  replied 
dryly. 

"But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Auchester?"  Spencer 
demanded.  "Do  you  know  anything  about  him  that  I 
don't?" 

"No,"  Cunningham  admitted  frankly.  "I  know  ex- 
actly what  you  all  know,  —  which  is  nothing.  I  am  simply 
protesting  in  my  feeble  way  against  the  careless  habit 
we  have  of  throwing  open  the  doors  of  our  clubs  to  casual 
acquaintances,  just  because  they  happen  to  be  agreeable 

[44] 


THE    MOTH 


fellows  and  good  bridge  players;  or  of  using  them  as 
places  where  we  may  dump  visitors  whom  we  don't  care 
to  have  in  our  homes.  It's  a  wonder  that  we  aren't 
victimized  more  often  than  we  are." 

"I  think  the  English  custom  is  devilish  inhospitable," 
Vallie  replied,  "and  our  'strangers'  room'  at  the  Bad- 
minton is  about  as  snippy." 

"  I  had  an  amusing  experience  at  the  Griffin  Club  in 
London."  Cunningham  laughed  at  the  recollection  which 
Spencer's  reference  to  English  clubs  brought  back  to  him. 
"I  had  been  an  'over-seas'  member  for  a  year  or  more 
before  I  had  the  opportunity  to  exercise  my  prerogative, 
and  the  first  time  I  used  the  club-house  happened  to  be 
on  a  Saturday  just  before  luncheon.  I  went  up  stairs  into 
the  'morning  room,'  and  finding  myself  out  of  cigarettes, 
I  rang  the  bell  for  the  page,  giving  him  the  order. 
Presently  he  returned,  empty-handed: 

4  Very  sorry,  sir,'  he  said,  most   respectfully;   '  you 
can't  have  the  cigarettes.' 

'Why  not?'  I  demanded,  determined  not  to  be  the 
victim  of  discrimination. 

'  The  Honorable  Secretary  is  out  of  town,  sir.' 
''Oh!'    I    said,  not    fully  comprehending.      'When 
will  the  Honorable  Secretary  return? ' 

' '  On  the  Monday,  sir,'  he  replied  cheerfully;  '  he's 
only  away  for  the  week-end,  sir.' 

'  Don't    the  members  smoke  when  the    Honorable 
Secretary  is  out  of  town? '  I  inquired. 

Oh,  yes,  sir;   but  the  cigarettes  are  in  his  desk,  sir, 
and  he  has  taken  the  key.' 

"  Seeing  my  distress,  the  boy  became  inspired  with  an 
idea.      'I  could  get  you  an  individual  cigarette,  sir.' 
"  '  Prithee  do,'  quoth  I. 

[45] 


THE    MOTH 


"  Again  he  returned,  this  time  with  a  small  glass  con- 
taining perhaps  a  dozen  cigarettes.  I  took  one  and 
placed  it  between  my  lips,  paying  him  his  penny. 

"  '  Where  are  the  matches  ? '  I  asked  as  he  retreated 
toward  the  door. 

" '  Beg  pardon,  sir,'  he  replied,  still  most  respectfully, 
*  but  you  can't  smoke  in  this  room  until  after  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  sir.' ' 

Spencer  laughed  boisterously.  "  And  yet  you  advo- 
cate English  customs  for  American  clubs." 

"  I  wouldn't  go  as  far  as  they  do  in  keeping  strangers 
out,"  he  explained,  "but  I'm  strong  for  the  happy 
medium." 

As  Cunningham  spoke  he  looked  up  and  saw  that  Lucy 
and  Margaret  were  standing  together  in  the  doorway. 

"Hullo,  Ned,"  Lucy  exclaimed,  as  he  rose  and  extended 
his  hand.  "I  missed  your  story,  but  your  last  sentiment 
is  fine  and  I  quite  agree  with  you.  Still,  I'm  glad  you 
didn't  start  your  reform  any  earlier,  for  it  never  would 
have  done  to  have  shut  out  Captain  Auchester.  He  dined 
with  us  just  before  we  left  town,  and  you  have  no  idea 
what  a  wonderful  man  he  is." 

"You  ought  to  hear  some  of  his  experiences,"  Spencer 
interrupted.  "He's  a  wonder." 

"I  haven't  anything  against  the  man,"  protested 
Cunningham.  "From  what  little  I've  seen  of  him  I  can 
easily  believe  all  you  say;  but  men  like  that  usually  bring 
with  them  some  sort  of  credentials." 

"You're  naturally  suspicious  because  you're  a  lawyer," 
Lucy  continued.  "  That  comes  from  associating  so  much 
with  the  criminal  class.  Don't  you  think  that  explains 
it,  Margaret?" 

"Don't  appeal  to  me,"  was  the  smiling  reply,  as  she 
[46] 


THE    MOTH 


advanced  with  Lucy  to  the  long  willow  divan.      "I  never 
argue  with  Ned;  he's  sure  to  be  too  much  for  me." 

"There  you  are  again,"  cried  Spencer,  seized  with  a 
sudden  inspiration.  "It  all  comes  right  back  to  the  fact 
that  he's  a  lawyer,  as  Lucy  says.  He  has  trained  himself 
to  be  suspicious  and  to  argue  cleverly.  Then  he  takes  it 
out  of  those  of  us  whose  training  has  all  been  different. 
Come,  Ned,  admit  that  it  isn't  fair  play." 

"I  didn't  realize  that  I  was  in  an  argumentative  frame 
of  mind,"  Cunningham  laughed.  "I  accept  my  rebuke, 
and  retire  discomforted.  Tell  us  what  happened  to  Mrs. 
Channing,  Lucy.  You  seemed  to  be  having  a  love  feast 
in  there." 

"I  wish  you  both  had  been  behind  the  door,"  Margaret 
said,  again  giving  free  rein  to  her  laughter. 

"I  should  have  waited  until  some  time  when  I  had  her 
all  to  myself,"  Lucy  observed  contritely.  "I  really 
intend  to  behave  very  discreetly  when  you  are  around, 
Margaret,  but  now  you'll  disapprove  of  me  more  than 
ever." 

"My  dear,  you  were  simply  delicious,"  cried  Margaret. 
"I  have  never  laughed  so  much  at  one  time  in  all  my  life." 

"Don't  keep  us  guessing  here,"  protested  Vallie.  "Let 
us  in  on  the  joke,  won't  you?  " 

"Well,  the  old  Medusa  came  here  just  to  look  me  over, " 
Lucy  began.  "She  has  heard  her  daughters  talk  about 
meeting  me,  and  she  wanted  to  see  what  sort  of  creature 
I  am.  I  shouldn't  have  done  it,  of  course,  but  when  I 
saw  her  sitting  there  with  her  Mayflower  expression,  in 
her  shiny,  black  silk  dress  with  little  white  frills  in  the 
neck  and  about  her  wrists,  and  her  inverted  conscience 
tied  up  writh  purity  ribbons,  —  I  simply  couldn't  resist 
the  temptation." 

[47] 


THE    MOTH 


"But  what  did  you  do?"  Cunningham  asked. 

"Yes,  what  did  you  do?"  Margaret  repeated,  going  off 
into  another  gale  of  laughter.  "Tell  the  gentlemen 
what  you  did,  Lucy." 

"I  tried  to  shock  her, —  and  I  think  I  succeeded,"  she 
said  demurely. 

"I'm  sure  you  did!"  Margaret  corroborated. 

"  But  how  —  "  Vallie  began. 

"I  offered  her  a  cigarette,  and  asked  her  if  she  liked 
cocktails,  and  showed  her  my  most  decollete  gown,  and 
told  her  how  fond  you  were  of  lingerie  — 

"Lucy!"  exclaimed  Cunningham,  aghast. 

"Ha!  ha! "  laughed  Valentine.  "No  wonder  she  went 
out  of  here  like  a  catapult!  Why,  Mrs.  Channing  is  the 
president  of  the  Society  for  the  Draping  of  the  Naked 
Truth.  She'll  have  you  arrested  in  the  morning." 

"You'll  never  forgive  me,"  Lucy  said  sorrowfully  to 
Margaret. 

"Nonsense!"  Margaret  replied.  "There's  nothing  to 
forgive,  —  but  we  shall  have  some  explaining  to  do  when 
we  get  home  if  we  don't  start  right  away.  Tom 
Langdon  and  Billy  Hayden  are  coming  in  for  supper 
tonight. " 

"  You  don't  think  much  of  the  success  of  my  missionary 
work  thus  far,  do  you,  Ned?"  Margaret  inquired  of  her 
husband  as  the  car  ran  swiftly  on  towards  home. 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  replied.  "The  fact  that  Lucy 
felt  it  necessary  to  explain  is  the  most  encouraging  sign 
I  have  yet  seen.  Keep  up  the  good  work." 


[48 


IT  was  no  unusual  thing  for  Langdon  or  Hayden  or 
any  one  of  a  dozen  other  younger  lawyers  to  drop 
in  at  the  Cunninghams'  for  Sunday  night  supper. 
Cunningham  took  his  profession  so  seriously  that  they 
always  gained  inspiration  from  even  casual  contact  with 
him,  and  the  high  position  he  had  attained  made  his  in- 
fluence far  reaching  in  offsetting  the  early  disappoint- 
ments and  discouragements  which  inevitably  follow  in 
the  wake  of  fallen  idols  and  broken  ideals.  Cunningham 
was  temperamentally  optimistic,  and  to  practise  law 
represented  to  him  a  privilege  rather  than  a  profession. 
When  justice  miscarried,  he  always  claimed  it  was  not 
the  fault  of  the  law,  but  rather  because  of  its  improper 
application  on  the  part  of  the  individual.  These  cases 
must  always  exist,  he  contended,  as  long  as  imperfections 
remain  in  the  human  character;  but  the  law  should  not 
be  blamed  for  them. 

Langdon  had  asked  particularly  that  he  and  Hayden 
might  come  in,  on  this  Sunday  night,  as  he  hoped  for  an 
opportunity  to  say  a  word  to  Cunningham  regarding  his 
own  connection  with  the  Montgomery  case.  It  was 
merely  a  coincidence  that  the  Court  had  appointed  him 
as  counsel  to  defend  Montgomery.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Langdon's  appointment  was  made  before  the  older  lawyer 
4  [49] 


THE    MOTH 


was  called  into  the  case  by  the  Attorney- General,  and  the 
only  reason  Cunningham  felt  for  hesitation  in  accepting 
the  call  was  that  he  would  be  opposed  to  this  younger, 
less  experienced  man,  his  friend,  and  perhaps  stand  in 
the  way  of  the  glory  and  reputation  which  so  often  follow 
in  the  wake  of  a  cause  celebre. 

"The  Court  has  appointed  you  to  defend  this  case," 
the  judge  had  told  Langdon,  "feeling  certain  that  the 
defendant's  interests  will  be  protected  as  fully  and  as 
carefully  as  though  he  were  able  to  retain  his  own  counsel." 

Perhaps  there  was  as  much  in  the  way  the  judge 
had  said  it  as  in  the  words  themselves.  At  all  events, 
Langdon  accepted  the  case  in  the  spirit  of  the  appoint- 
ment, and  found  that  it  served  to  elevate  in  his  own 
mind  the  dignity  of  his  profession.  He  always  acknowl- 
edged frankly  that  he  was  a  pessimist  on  the  standpoint 
of  high  morality  in  every-day  life,  and  he  made  no  excep- 
tion of  the  practice  of  law.  To  him  it  was  no  different 
from  any  other  occupation,  and  he  had  entered  it  not  as 
a  "calling, "  but  as  a  business  proposition.  The  academic 
side  appealed  to  him,  and  he  had  succeeded  to  an  extent 
which  warranted  his  appointment  by  the  Court;  but  it 
was  so  at  variance  with  his  previous  attitude  to  find 
himself  regarding  his  present  case  in  the  light  of  a 
sacred  trust,  that  he  felt  impelled  to  discuss  matters 
with  Cunningham.  This  was  the  particular  occasion  of 
his  asking  to  come  in  for  Sunday  night  supper,  and  he 
brought  Hay  den  with  him. 

"Curious  that  we  should  be  together  in  that  Montgom- 
ery case,  isn't  it?"  he  remarked,  while  Margaret  prepared 
the  salad. 

"Your  appointment  is  a  compliment  which  I  hope  you 
appreciate,"  Cunningham  replied.  "It's  a  sobering  re- 

[50] 


THE    MOTH 


sponsibility  to  have  the  defense  of  a  man's  life  put  on  your 
shoulders,  and  the  selection  of  counsel  is  not  made  lightly, 
I  assure  you.  Judge  Amory  believes  that  you  can  de- 
velop the  defense  if  there  is  any,  and  you're  sure  to  come 
through  with  added  laurels,  though  frankly  I  don't  expect 
to  see  you  win  your  case." 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  Langdon  laughed.  "It  is  your 
job  to  see  that  I  don't." 

"Not  necessarily,"  Cunningham  corrected. 

Langdon  looked  puzzled.  "That's  a  curious  remark," 
he  said. 

The  older  lawyer  understood  what  was  working  in  his 
friend's  mind.  "Then  it  is  your  idea  that  the  duty  of  the 
defending  counsel  is  to  free  and  of  the  prosecuting  attorney 
to  convict  the  prisoner?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course,"  was  the  frank  response. 

"Regardless  of  the  testimony?" 

"Let  us  say  in  spite  of  the  testimony." 

"Surely  you  don't  carry  your  ideals  so  far  as  to  dispute 
Tom's  position  on  that,"  Hayden  broke  in. 

"If  that  isn't  the  case,  why  did  they  call  you  in?" 
Langdon  demanded.  "If  it  had  been  left  in  the  hands  of 
the  District- Attorney,  or  even  of  the  Attorney-General, 
I'm  certain  that  I  could  at  least  get  a  disagreement. 
Why  they  should  take  such  extreme  measures  I  don't 
understand.  I  can't  remember  a  similar  instance  since 
Webster  was  called  into  the  Knapp- White  case.  You're 
the  modern  Webster,  Ned!" 

"I  don't  wonder  that  you  are  surprised  that  the 
Attorney-General  asked  me  to  assist  him,"  Cunningham 
explained;  "it  was  a  complete  surprise  to  me.  I  am 
no  criminal  lawyer  and  have  no  interest  in  such  cases 
except  from  a  psychological  standpoint.  That  is  un- 

151] 


THE    MOTH 


doubtedly  the  explanation,  for  this  problem  is  an  interest- 
ing one." 

"I  have  never  associated  psychology  with  law," 
Langdon  replied. 

"It  is  a  phase  which  has  been  late  in  reaching 
America.  I  commend  it  to  you.  —  Now  tell  me,  in 
your  opinion  is  there  reasonable  doubt  as  to  the  man's 
guilt?" 

"The  evidence  is  admittedly  all  circumstantial,  and 
is  only  as  strong  as  it's  weakest  part.  In  a  case  like  this 
there  is  always  a  chance  to  find  a  break  in  the  chain; 
but  with  your  uncanny  power  to  make  other  people  see 
things  the  way  you  do,  I  admit  that  the  defense  is  up 
against  a  real  proposition." 

"What  would  you  do,  Tom,  if  you  became  convinced 
that  your  client  was  guilty?" 

"I  think  I  should  feel  greatly  relieved;  then  if  he  is 
convicted  he  would  only  be  getting  what  belongs  to  him. 
If  I  believe  him  innocent  and  lose  the  case  I'll  always  have 
it  on  my  conscience  that  perhaps  there  was  something  I 
might  have  done  which  I  didn't." 

"Would  you  drop  a  case  if  you  became  convinced  of 
a  client's  guilt?"  Hayden  asked  Cunningham  pointedly. 

"No,"  was  the  reply.  "A  lawyer  often  discovers  this 
at  a  time  when  his  withdrawal  would  injure  his  client's 
cause;  but  in  such  an  event  I  should  certainly  urge  an 
admission  of  guilt  and  work  for  the  lightest  possible 
penalty  consistent  with  justice.  Having  once  undertaken 
the  defense,  a  lawyer  is  bound  by  every  fair  and  honorable 
means  which  the  law  of  the  land  permits  to  prevent  his 
client  from  being  deprived  of  life  or  liberty  except  by  due 
process  of  the  law.  Beyond  all  this,  a  case  before  the 
Court  is  not  unlike  a  play  upon  the  stage,  —  everything 

[52] 


THE    MOTH 


is  exaggerated.  If  one  side  presented  its  evidence  in 
merely  its  normal  values  the  other  would  gain  a  distinct 
advantage  through  the  loss  of  proportion." 

"Then  you  don't  consider  that  it  is  my  duty  necessarily 
to  win  this  case?"  Langdon  demanded. 

"Not  unless  you  remain  convinced  of  your  client's 
innocence  or  that  a  reasonable  doubt  exists  as  to  his  guilt." 

"Suppose  we  reverse  the  case.  What  will  you  do  if 
you  become  convinced  of  the  same  thing?" 

"All  which  lies  in  my  power  to  secure  justice." 

"But  that  would  be  to  work  with  the  defense?" 

"Practically,"  admitted  Cunningham.  "The  State  is 
thirsting  for  no  man's  blood,  and  while  your  approach  to 
the  case  is  necessarily  different  from  mine,  in  a  way  they 
are  identical.  Go  ahead  with  your  defense,  Tom,  and  if 
you  can  convince  me  that  the  man  Brewster  could  have 
been  killed  by  any  one  except  Montgomery,  the  prosecu- 
tion must  necessarily  drop  its  case." 

Langdon  was  silent  for  some  moments  and  the  others 
at  the  table  refrained  from  breaking  in  upon  his  thoughts. 
"I  wish  I  believed  that  the  law  could  be  administered  on 
that  basis,"  he  said  at  length.  "The  longer  I  practise  the 
more  pessimistic  I  become.  The  idea  seems  to  be  to  get 
your  facts  together  and  then  make  the  law  correspond, 
and  the  cleverest  lawyer  is  he  who  can  best  show  his 
client  how  to  bend  the  line  of  the  law  without  breaking  it. 
YS  hy,  only  yesterday  I  heard  a  lawyer  say  of  another,  who 
ranks  high  as  a  publicist  right  here  in  Boston,  'I  believe 
he  is  honest,  but  he  doesn't  know  the  meaning  of  the 
words  "fair  play."  '  " 

Cunningham  smiled.  "That  ought  not  to  make  you 
pessimistic;  it  should  rather  encourage  you  to  greater 
effort  in  upholding  the  honor  of  your  profession." 

[53] 


THE    MOTH 


"But, Ned,"  Langdon  burst  out,  keyed  up  by  his  intense 
earnestness,  "you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  reputable 
lawyers  go  into  the  courtroom  every  day  with  papers  in 
their  pockets  which  would  absolutely  ruin  their  cases  if 
given  to  the  other  side,  —  and  keep  them  in  their 
pockets." 

"Yes,  I  do  know  it,"  Cunningham  admitted,  "and  of 
course  that  is  all  wrong;  yet  how  is  it  any  different  from 
what  we  meet  in  business  or  every-day  social  intercourse? 
How  many  friends  would  you  have  if  you  always  spoke  the 
whole  truth?  how  many  business  houses  would  remain 
solvent  if  in  their  relations  with  customers  and  banks 
they  insisted  on  telling  all  they  know?  I  don't  defend 
any  of  it,  and  the  saddest  part  of  all  is  that  if  everything 
was  administered  in  the  strict  letter  of  honor  and  in- 
tegrity the  honest  man  is  the  one  who  would  suffer. 
We  must  accept  conditions  as  they  are,  unfortunately, 
and  do  our  part  to  raise  them  to  a  higher  standard." 

"Now  that  you  have  settled  all  that,  suppose  you  let 
Mr.  Hayden  and  me  join  in  the  conversation,"  Margaret 
remarked. 

"There  is  just  one  thing  more  I  want  to  say  before  I 
drop  this  argument  with  Tom,"  Cunningham  continued. 
"You  spoke  a  moment  ago  of  my  having  the  power  to 
make  other  people  see  things  the  way  I  see  them,  and 
if  that  is  true  I  want  you  to  appreciate  the  fact  that  it  is 
only  because  I  succeed  in  persuading  them  of  my  own 
conviction.  Any  one  ought  to  be  able  to  do  that;  but 
if  you  yourself  don't  believe  what  you  are  advocating 
it  is  naturally  a  difficult  matter  to  persuade  others.  If, 
through  this  power,  as  you  call  it  and  such  as  it  is,  I  ever 
accomplished  an  injustice  to  a  prisoner,  I  should  never 
forgive  myself." 

[54] 


THE    MOTH 


"I  believe  you,  Ned,"  Langdon  acknowledged  with 
sincerity.  "What  you  have  said  has  helped  me  a  lot. 
I'm  proud  to  be  against  you  in  this  case." 

"Have  you  heard  from  the  Spencers  since  they  went 
to  the  shore?"  Hayden  asked,  following  Margaret's 
suggestion. 

"We  have  just  returned  from  there,"  she  replied. 
"  They  aren't  settled  yet,  but  they're  on  their  way. " 

"I  suppose  Vallie  was  throwing  trunks  around  and 
cutting  the  grass,  and  making  himself  generally  useful, 
as  usual?"  Langdon  inquired. 

"As  usual,  —  yes,"  Margaret  laughed. 

"And  Lucy  was  mending  the  children's  socks?  "  Hayden 
continued. 

"Exactly,  —  you  describe  the  domestic  scene  to  a 
nicety." 

The  momentary  silence  which  followed  these  sallies 
was  broken  by  a  general  laugh. 

"When  do  you  suppose  that  girl  will  grow  up?" 
Langdon  asked. 

"When  experience  clutches  hold  of  her  and  makes  her 
suffer,"  Cunningham  answered  seriously.  "It  is  too  late 
for  her  to  learn  the  lesson  from  any  less  exacting 
master." 

"I  hate  to  think  of  Lucy  suffering,"  Hayden  remarked. 
"She  has  always  lived  on  the  foam  of  life,  and  I  can't 
imagine  her  dipping  into  it  any  deeper,  much  less  going 
to  the  depths." 

"Too  bad  she  couldn't  have  married  a  man  with  at 
least  a  suggestion  of  solidity  —  some  one  who  could  have 
brought  out  her  character  a  bit,"  observed  Langdon. 

"A  man  like  Thomas  Langdon,  Esquire?"  Margaret 
suggested,  mischievously. 

155) 


THE    MOTH 


"Not  a  bad  idea  at  all,"  Langdon  retorted.  "Her 
money  would  have  cured  even  my  pessimism;  and  I 
know  I  could  have  done  a  better  job  at  making  her  happy 
than  Vallie  has.  Lucy  is  a  woman  all  right,  underneath 
the  froth." 

"It's  a  pity  that  her  children  don't  mean  more  to  her," 
Margaret  said  reflectively.  "She  can't  get  much  response 
from  her  husband,  but  Larry  and  Babs  are  dears,  thanks 
to  that  splendid  governess  they  have." 

"She  doesn't  neglect  them,  Peggy,"  Cunningham  pro- 
tested. "The  care  she  has  taken  in  selecting  their 
governess  is  evidence  of  that." 

"When  Babs  was  ill  last  winter,  Dr.  Bryant  told  me, 
she  was  up  with  her  every  night,"  added  Hay  den,  join- 
ing Cunningham  in  Lucy's  defense. 

"  Only  to  turn  her  over  bodily  to  Susette  as  soon  as 
the  danger  was  passed,"  Margaret  completed  the  story. 
"It  isn't  motherly,  that's  all." 

"Another  note  to  be  struck  by  that  stern  master  Ex- 
perience Ned  speaks  of,"  Langdon  said;  "but  I  do  hope 
you're  wrong  about  the  suffering.  I  couldn't  bear  to 
have  Lucy  suffer." 

"You  men  are  not  sincere,"  Margaret  declared  sud- 
denly. "You  all  dance  attendance  on  her,  laugh  at  her 
unconventional  speeches  and  acts,  encourage  her  in  the 
foolish  idea  that  she  can  safely  disregard  established 
proprieties,  and  then  bemoan  the  fact  that  she  must 
suffer  in  order  to  learn  her  duty  toward  life.  That  is  an 
inconsistency  which  I  have  noted  exists  in  men  in  general." 

"Don't  be  unfair,"  Hayden  protested. 

"Heaven  knows  that  I  have  advised  her  until  she 
looks  upon  me  as  a  grizzled  grandfather,"  Cunningham 
added  grimly. 

[561 


THE    MOTH 


"I'm  glad  you  have,  Ned,"  Margaret  continued; 
"for  that  is  what  she  needs.  If  every  one  laughs  at  her 
smart  sayings  and  risque  doings,  how  is  she  ever  to  know?  " 

"Who  laughed  at  her  this  afternoon?"  Cunningham 
demanded  maliciously. 

"I  did,  —  and  I'm  ashamed  of  it."  Margaret  could 
not  restrain  her  mirth  as  she  recalled  the  expression  on 
Mrs.  Channing's  face.  "I  was  wrong,  and  I  intend  to- 
atone." 

"That  is  exactly  the  situation  we  are  up  against  most 
of  the  time,"  explained  Hayden.  "I  don't  know  what 
happened  this  afternoon,  but  what  Lucy  does  is  so  scream- 
ingly funny  when  it  occurs  that  we  can't  help  being 
amused.  The  only  difference  is  that  we  don't  atone  as 
you  say  you're  going  to.  I  don't  quite  see  how  we  could 
do  that." 

"Try  to  be  serious  with  her,  and  give  her  something 
to  think  of  besides  herself  and  other  trivialities,"  Margaret 
suggested. 

"  I'll  go  right  down  and  tell  her  that  I'll  be  a  grandfather 
to  her,  like  Ned,"  Langdon  replied. 

"It  would  destroy  one  of  Boston's  most  attractive 
features  to  bring  Lucy  down  to  conventions,"  Hayden 
said  meditatively. 

"And  incidentally  make  a  woman  in  the  process," 
added  Margaret.  "It's  worth  thinking  over." 


[57] 


VI 


IT  was  three  weeks  later  that  Auchester  accepted 
Spencer's  urgent  invitation  to  be  his  guest  for  the 
week-end.  Vallie  had  seen  much  of  him  at  the  Bad- 
minton Club  during  this  time,  and  his  admiration  for  the 
Captain's  skill  at  auction  was  second  only  to  his  enjoy- 
ment of  the  genial  companionship.  Auchester  took  him 
seriously,  which  few  of  his  friends  did.  In  fact  Spencer  had 
so  long  been  the  butt  of  most  of  the  good-natured  raillery 
at  his  clubs  that  he  had  come  to  accept  it  as  a  matter  of 
course;  yet  he  was  keenly  conscious  of  the  difference  in 
Auchester's  attitude,  and  it  gratified  an  unspoken  desire. 
Nor  was  Spencer  the  Captain's  only  friend.  The  stories 
which  Auchester  told,  drawn  largely  from  his  unusually 
interesting  experiences,  made  him  always  the  center  of  an 
attentive  group  of  club  members  during  the  coffee,  cigar, 
and  liqueur  period.  At  cards  he  proved  to  be  as  good  a 
loser  as  he  was  winner,  and  he  was  always  ready  to  join  in 
any  proposition,  indoors  or  out,  which  might  be  suggested. 
He  played  golf  as  well  as  he  did  auction;  he  rode  a  horse  with 
the  masterly  skill  of  an  English  officer,  seeming  a  part  of  the 
animal  itself.  All  in  all,  he  had  become  immensely  popular, 
and  Spencer  took  to  himself  much  credit  that  he  had  stood 
his  sponsor,  being  hugely  delighted  by  the  preference  which 
Auchester  seemed  to  show  for  his  companionship. 

[58] 


THE    MOTH 


It  was  only  because  the  settling  of  the  shore  house  had 
taken  longer  than  usual  that  the  invitation  to  the  Captain 
had  been  delayed  at  all.  Spencer  would  have  had  him 
down  the  week  following  the  visit  from  the  Cunninghams, 
but  Lucy  declined  to  consider  it  at  that  time,  and  on  the 
following  week  had  insisted  that  it  be  postponed  once 
more.  She  had  not  analyzed  the  reason,  but  she  knew 
that  this  was  what  she  wished;  and  Vallie  simply  fussed 
and  fumed  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  acquiesced.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Lucy  felt  the  need  of  a  little  time  to 
recover  her  entire  composure.  Her  experience  with  Cun- 
ningham had  shaken  her  so  deeply  that  she  was  not  yet 
herself.  What  if  he  had  taken  advantage  of  her  foolish- 
ness !  She  had  never  gone  so  far  as  this  before,  and  when 
she  felt  Ned  Cunningham's  arms  close  about  her  she 
believed  for  a  moment  that  he  was  going  to  take  her  at 
her  word.  Then  he  had  scolded  her,  and  she  really  ex- 
pected that  he  would  cherish  her  folly  against  her,  as 
she  knew  she  richly  deserved.  It  had  been  friendly  of  him 
to  run  down  with  Margaret  so  soon.  This  was  like  him. 
He  wished  her  to  know  that  he  not  only  forgave  her,  but 
that  he  understood.  And  Margaret  had  come  too,  more 
intimate  and  friendly  than  ever.  Lucy  was  determined 
to  make  amends,  and  as  Ned  had  cautioned  her  particu- 
larly against  Captain  Auchester,  she  postponed  his  coming 
until  she  had  taken  ample  time  to  settle  back  into  her 
normal  state. 

The  house  which  the  Spencers  leased  was  located  on 
one  of  the  most  superb  sites  along  the  North  Shore,  built 
on  a  cliff  overhanging  the  sea.  The  broad  piazza,  shielded 
at  one  end  against  the  east  wind,  was  of  course  its  chief 
attraction,  and  the  location  gave  the  house  as  much 
seclusion  from  the  Shore  Drive  as  if  built  upon  a  larger 

159] 


THE    MOTH 


estate.  The  stone  wall  in  front  was  flanked  by  high- 
growing  shrubs,  and  on  either  side  of  the  entrance  gate 
masses  of  rhododendrons  grew  in  luxuriant  profusion.  The 
inclined  driveway  wandered  as  it  led  up  to  the  house, 
past  a  well-kept  lawn.  The  Italian  garden  was  at  the 
right,  on  a  level  with  the  house,  lending  its  brilliant  color- 
ing to  the  vista  seen  from  the  piazza,  and  behind  this  was 
a  vine-grown  pergola  built  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
forming  the  most  enticing  of  the  many  retreats  which  the 
grounds  afforded.  The  children  took  particular  delight 
in  the  summer  home,  which  offered  so  great  a  contrast 
to  the  restrictions  of  the  city,  and  the  piazza  gave  them 
ample  opportunity  to  play  "ship"  and  all  kinds  of  marine 
games  with  a  sense  of  reality  which  could  scarcely  be 
equaled.  When  Lucy  came  down  stairs  the  latter  part 
of  the  morning,  the  governess  took  the  children  to  the 
small  beach  below,  so  that  their  activity  need  not  dis- 
turb the  reading  of  the  latest  novel  or  the  perusal  of 
the  magazines. 

This  was  the  usual  routine  of  Lucy's  brief  morning. 
She  lunched  with  the  children  except  when  they  proved 
too  trying,  on  which  occasions  she  would  send  them  to 
finish  their  meal  with  the  governess.  Lucy's  discipline 
stopped  here.  If  they  were  reasonably  quiet  and  good- 
natured  she  enjoyed  their  childish  pranks  and  prattle, 
but  at  the  first  signs  of  those  storms  which  make  up 
the  normal  child  life,  she  promptly  relegated  them  to 
the  charge  of  the  efficient  Susette,  who,  as  Lucy  often 
remarked,  was  expressly  employed  for  just  that  purpose. 
Later  in  the  afternoon,  after  a  leisurely  change  of  rai- 
ment, the  motor  was  called  into  requisition,  and  Lucy 
rode  with  friends  or  alone  until  train  time,  when  she  picked 
Vallie  up  at  the  station. 

[60] 


THE    MOTH 


Auchester  went  down  with  Spencer  on  Friday  afternoon, 
and  the  two  men  joined  Lucy  in  a  drive  which  extended 
nearly  to  dinner  time.  It  was  the  Captain's  first  view  of 
the  glorious  North  Shore,  and  his  enthusiasm  was  bound- 
less. The  run  took  them  beside  the  water  as  far  as  Glouces- 
ter, and  then  back  past  the  sumptuous  summer  estates  at 
Magnolia  and  Manchester. 

"I'll  show  you  another  variation  after  dinner," 
Vallie  assured  his  guest,  in  response  to  one  of  his  many 
exclamations  of  delight. 

"What  is  the  plan  for  the  evening?"  Lucy  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  take  the  Captain  over  to  The  Yacht 
Club  at  Marblehead  for  bridge,  and  we'll  irotor  back  by 
moonlight. " 

"What  are  the  other  plans?"  she  continued. 

"Tomorrow  we  are  to  play  golf  all  day  at  Myopia,  and 
we'll  stay  there  for  dinner.  Eustis  and  Miller  are  going 
to  join  us  in  a  foursome,  and  we  have  a  table  made  up 
there  for  auction  in  the  evening.  Sunday  we'll  motor  a 
bit,  and  Eustis  has  asked  us  on  his  yacht  at  Marblehead 
after  dinner  at  the  club.  Not  a  bad  program,  —  eh,, 
Auchester?" 

"It  sounds  like  a  busy  one,"  the  Captain  assented. 

Lucy's  disappointment  may  have  conveyed  itself  to  her 
husband,  but  she  had  not  intended  to  have  him  see  it. 

"Why  don't  you  run  over  to  Myopia  on  Saturday  and 
lunch  with  us,  Lucy?"  he  asked  suddenly.  "I  can  send 
the  car  back  for  you." 

"And  break  into  your  beautifully  arranged  plans?" 
she  replied  with  a  smile  which  so  concealed  her  real  feel- 
ings that  even  the  Captain  was  deceived.  "Not  for 
worlds." 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  Spencer  quickly  acquiesced, 
[61] 


THE    MOTH 


with  evident  relief;  "but  I  didn't  want  you  to  think  we 
were  running  away  from  you." 

"Vallie  is  always  so  thoughtful  of  me,"  Lucy  said, 
turning  to  Auchester. 

"Who  wouldn't  be?"  the  Captain  replied  quickly, 
with  an  expression  in  his  voice  which  told  her  that  he 
too  resented  her  exclusion.  For  some  unexplained  reason 
it  cheered  Lucy,  but  Spencer  really  believed  he  had  been 
magnanimous. 

During  the  next  three  days  the  men  slept  at  the  house, 
had  their  breakfasts  before  Lucy  came  down,  and  returned 
at  night  long  after  she  had  retired;  and  during  the  same 
period  Lucy  cherished  in  her  heart  a  constantly  increasing 
resentment  at  Vallie 's  indifference  and  lack  of  under- 
standing. This  was  not  a  new  phase,  she  admitted,  and 
she  should  have  become  accustomed  to  it;  yet  there 
was  a  difference.  The  house  guests  they  had  previously 
entertained  were  usually  couples,  which  made  it  more 
inevitable  that  the  forms  of  entertainment,  whatever 
they  were,  should  be  enjoyed  together.  Vallie  had  never 
before  had  a  friend  who  had  allowed  himself  to  be  so 
monopolized.  It  was  not  a  change  in  any  way,  she  re- 
peated to  herself  again  and  again:  it  was  simply  that 
Vallie  was  selfish  and  thoughtless  now  as  always.  She 
noticed  it  more,  that  was  all,  and  resented  it  for  the 
first  time. 

So  the  routine,  as  far  as  Lucy  was  concerned,  was  little 
affected  by  the  Captain's  visit.  They  had  a  single  motor 
ride  together  Sunday  afternoon,  by  which  time  she  had 
reached  a  point  where  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  enjoy  it. 
The  men  were  left  at  The  Yacht  Club,  and  she  drove  home 
alone.  After  her  solitary  dinner  she  wandered  out  on  the 
piazza,  attracted  particularly  by  the  bright,  golden  edge 

[62] 


THE    MOTH 


of  the  moon,  just  rising  out  of  the  water.  She  drew  a 
large  wicker  chair  close  to  the  railing,  and  threw  herself 
into  it,  facing  the  water,  to  watch  the  changing  lights, 
and  to  think,  think,  think.  Oh,  the  agony  of  those 
thoughts  which  come  in  troops,  unbidden  and  undesired, 
when  the  mind  has  once  centered  itself  upon  a  diseased 
spot  in  the  structure  of  life!  How  merciful  if  some  power 
were  given  us  to  slough  it  off  and  force  cessation ! 

The  sound  of  tires  crunching  against  the  gravel  road  at 
length  aroused  Lucy  from  unpleasant  reveries,  and  she 
went  quickly  to  the  steps  to  greet  her  visitors.  No  one 
ever  received  a  welcome  more  full  of  genuine  cordiality 
than  Ned  and  Margaret  Cunningham,  as  they  stepped 
out  of  their  car  and  were  eagerly  seized  by  Lucy,  one 
with  each  hand. 

"I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  any  one!"  she  cried 
impulsively. 

"All  alone?"  Margaret  asked,  peering  around  the 
moonlit  piazza. 

"Alone  and  disconsolate,"  was  the  reply.  "Captain 
Auchester  is  supposed  to  be  here  for  the  week-end,  but 
this  afternoon  is  the  only  time  I've  seen  him  since  he 
arrived  on  Friday.  He  and  Vallie  dined  at  The  Yacht 
Club  tonight,  and  are  spending  the  evening  on  Mr. 
Eustis'  yacht." 

Cunningham  listened  with  interest,  and  gave  Spencer 
credit  for  having  conducted  himself  with  more  than  his 
usual  sagacity.  Aloud  he  said :  "  Margaret  and  I  couldn't 
resist  this  wonderful  evening,  and  what  more  entrancing 
destination  could  we  have  chosen  than  this  piazza!" 

"You  never  came  to  see  any  one  who  needed  you  more,'* 
Lucy  insisted.  "I  have  been  feeling  perfectly  wretched 
lately,  and  tonight  it  is  worse  than  ever.  And  I  really 

[03] 


THE    MOTH 


believe,  Ned,  that  it's  all  your  fault.  No,  not  ill,"  she 
hastened  to  explain;  "but  do  you  know,  Margaret,  Ned 
read  me  an  awful  lecture  just  before  we  came  down 
here,  and  it  has  made  me  think  and  think  and  keep  on 
thinking,  —  and  Heaven  knows  that  over-exercise  is  an 
imposition  upon  my  mind." 

"Ned  has  a  way  of  doing  that,"  Margaret  admitted; 
44  but  what  he  says  is  usually  pretty  good  sense,  though 
I  dislike  to  admit  it  before  him." 

"You  mustn't  take  anything  I  said  so  much  to  heart," 
Cunningham  protested. 

"Did  Ned  tell  you  what  I  did?  "  Lucy  turned  suddenly 
to  Margaret.  "No?  then  he's  a  dear  boy.  But  I'm  going 
to  tell  you,  so  that  you  may  know  what  a  husband  you 
have." 

"I  wouldn't,"  Cunningham  expostulated  quickly. 
" There  is  no  occasion  to  think  of  it  again." 

"I'm  going  to,"  she  said  with  decision;  "but  please 
give  me  a  cigarette  first,  Ned.  I  must  be  feeling  better, 
for  I  haven't  cared  to  smoke  for  two  days.  Promise  me 
you  won't  hate  me  when  I  tell  you,  Margaret." 

"Was  it  as  terrible  as  that?" 

"Wait  till  you  hear.  I  put  my  arms  around  Ned's 
neck  and  told  him  he  might  kiss  me.  There!"  she  con- 
tinued with  a  sigh  of  relief;  "I'm  glad  that  is  out  of  my 
system.  What  do  you  think  of  me  now?" 

"I  think  you  were  taking  chances  which  no  woman 
ought  to  take,"  Margaret  admitted,  frankly  shocked 
by  the  confession.  "What  possessed  you  to  be  so 
foolish?" 

"I  haven't  an  idea.  Of  course,  I'm  very  fond  of  Ned, 
but  that  wasn't  why  I  did  it.  I  suppose  I  was  piqued 
because  he  always  treats  me  so  like  a  child." 


THE    MOTH 


"Perhaps  that  was  fortunate  in  this  case.  I'm  glad 
that  it  happened  to  be  Ned  instead  of  to  some  other  man." 

"You're  glad?"  echoed  Lucy;  "you're  glad?  Aren't 
you  even  going  to  ask  what  Ned  did?" 

"  I  don't  care  what  Ned  did,  Lucy.  If  I  were  a  man  and 
a  woman  as  attractive  as  you  are  gave  me  that  oppor- 
tunity, I  wouldn't  care  to  have  my  wife  ask  what  I  did. 
If  any  one  was  to  be  blamed,  it  was  you.  If  I  thought 
Ned  loved  you,  that  would  be  another  matter." 

"Of  course  I  am  the  one  to  be  blamed;  but  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  Ned  — " 

"I  didn't  say  I  blamed  you,"  interrupted  Margaret 
deliberately.  "One  doesn't  blame  children  for  doing 
foolish  things;  one  tries  to  help  them  to  realize  that  they 
are  foolish.  The  fact  that  you  have  spoken  of  the  matter 
just  as  you  have  shows  that  you  have  come  to  that 
realization;  so  no  more  needs  to  be  said." 

"But  Ned  didn't  kiss  me,"  Lucy  completed  her  sentence 
at  last. 

"I'm  glad  he  didn't;  but  far  more  glad  for  your  sake 
than  for  his  or  mine." 

Lucy  looked  into  her  face  for  a  long  moment,  failing 
utterly  to  comprehend. 

Margaret  was  sincere  when  she  told  the  self-accused 
culprit  that  she  held  her  no  more  accountable  than  she 
would  have  held  any  other  naughty  child.  Never  had 
Lucy  appeared  to  her  so  attractively  girlish,  and  to  be 
offended  would  have  seemed  absurd.  Margaret  felt  the 
same  irresistible  spell  of  that  beautiful  calm  which  had 
earlier  impressed  Ned,  to  which  a  quaint  pathos  was  now 
added  by  the  tears  which  welled  up  in  her  eyes  and 
hung,  demanding  sympathy,  upon  the  long  lashes. 

"Come,  dear,"  she  said  with  a  smile  full  of  under- 
[65] 


THE    MOTH 


standing  as  she  drew  Lucy  toward  her  and  kissed  her 
tenderly.  "This  has  been  on  your  mind  a  long  time, 
and  you  will  feel  better  now  that  you  have  freed  your- 
self from  it.  Let's  forget  it.  You  and  I  understand 
each  other  better  than  we  have  before,  and  I  want  you 
to  let  me  come  closer  into  your  life.  Will  you,  Lucy?" 
"Isn't  it  silly  to  cry?"  she  answered,  throwing  her  arms 
about  Margaret  and  pressing  her  face  passionately  against 
her  own.  "I  haven't  cried  before  since  I  was  a  child,  — 
and  this  is  another  evidence  that  I  am  one  still,  just  as 
you  and  Ned  say.  Yes,  Peggy,  do  come  closer  into  my 
life.  I  want  you,  dear,  —  and  oh,  how  I  need  you!" 


[66] 


VII 


A  FTER  the  Cunninghams  left,  Lucy  resumed  her  seat, 
A%  again  to  think  but  with  her  thoughts  controlled 
-L  ^-  by  far  different  emotions.  What  had  prompted 
her  to  tell  Margaret  of  her  humiliating  freedom  with 
Ned?  Impulse!  that  same  impulse  which  wras  responsible 
for  the  act  itself.  In  this  instance  it  had  turned  out  for  the 
best,  but  she  realized  that  again  she  had  taken  the  same 
awful  chance.  What  wife  except  Margaret  would  have  sat 
quietly  by  and  heard  another  woman  confess  that  she 
had  thrown  herself  into  her  husband's  arms,  and  have 
made  that  confession  serve  as  a  means  to  bring  the  two 
more  closely  together?  Impulse  was  the  enemy  against 
which  she  must  struggle;  but  with  Margaret's  help  and 
with  Ned's  it  would  be  easier. 

How  long  she  sat  there  Lucy  had  no  idea;  but  she  was 
frankly  surprised  again  to  hear  an  automobile  turning 
up  the  road.  She  rose  with  less  enthusiasm  this  time,  as 
her  resentment  had  been  controlled  rather  than  lessened 
by  her  visit  with  the  Cunninghams.  Refusing  the  help 
of  the  chauffeur,  the  Captain  was  lifting  Spencer  bodily 
from  the  tonneau,  and  one  glance  at  the  expression  on  the 
face  told  Lucy  all  that  she  needed  to  know.  Auchester 
saw  her  mortification  and  disgust. 

"I  hoped  you  would  be  asleep,  Mrs.  Spencer.  Your 
husband  is  ill — " 

[67] 


"I  see  he  is,"  she  replied,  with  lips  scarcely  parted. 
"I  am  sorry  that  our  guest  is  obliged  to  be  his  nurse." 

"Shall  I  take  him  to  his  room?" 

"Let  Leon  take  him  up." 

"Please  —  I  beg  of  you,"  he  protested.  "I  can  carry 
him  easily.  These  things  will  happen." 

"I  know,"  she  replied,  "but  usually  he  has  the  sense 
to  sleep  it  off  before  he  comes  home." 

"It  was  my  fault,  Mrs.  Spencer.  They  wanted  to  keep 
him  on  the  yacht,  but  I  feared  you  would  be  anxious. 
Please  wait  here  a  moment." 

For  the  first  time  the  situation  assumed  in  Lucy's  mind 
a  humorous  aspect,  and  this  relieved  the  tension.  To  be 
carrying  on  this  conversation  with  the  Captain  while  he 
stood  with  her  husband  huddled  in  his  great  arms  like  a 
baby  seemed  to  her  incongruous  enough  to  bring  a  smile. 

"Forgive  me  for  keeping  you,"  she  hastened  to  say. 
"Put  him  on  the  bed  or  anywhere.  He'll  be  all  right 
until  his  man  gets  there." 

"And  you'll  wait  here?" 

"Yes." 

Auchester  found  her  sitting  in  her  chair  again,  with  her 
head  leaning  against  the  red  cushion.  The  moon  shone 
brightly  on  her  face  and  hair  and  neck,  and  the  Captain 
stopped  short  in  his  approach  as  he  regarded  her.  "By 
Jove!  but  you  are  beautiful!"  he  exclaimed  involuntarily. 

Lucy  sat  up  straight,  surprised  by  the  fervor  of  the 
exclamation.  He  took  her  action  to  mean  disapproval. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  quickly;  "I  couldn't  help  it. 
We  soldiers  have  the  dangerous  habit  of  saying  just  what 
we  think.  Don't  be  angry." 

"Angry?"  she  repeated,  settling  back  into  her  former 
position.  "  I'm  not  angry.  Why  should  I  be?  No  woman 

[68] 


THE    MOTH 


ever  objects  to  being  called  beautiful.  In  this  instance 
I  don't  take  much  credit  to  myself,  as  anything  would 
seem  'beautiful'  after  what  you've  been  looking  at." 

Auchester  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  "I  suppose  it 
is  natural  that  we  men  should  take  these  things  less 
seriously  than  women.  Candor  forces  me  to  say  that  I 
am  in  no  way  shocked,  so  please  do  not  give  yourself 
uneasiness  on  that  score.  From  my  own  observation 
of  American  hospitality  the  wonder  is  that  any  of  us 
keep  sober." 

"I'm  not  worrying  over  Vallie's  condition,"  Lucy 
hastened  to  correct;  "it's  the  mortification  of  seeing  him 
forget  his  duties  as  a  host." 

"You  do  him  an  injustice,  I  assure  you.  It  is  because 
he  has  been  overzealous  in  his  entertainment  that  he  has 
succumbed. " 

"How  is  it  that  you  have  escaped?" 

Again  Auchester  laughed.  "Thanks  to  a  stronger 
constitution,  perhaps." 

"Perhaps,"  she  echoed;  "but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  did 
you  ever  'succumb/  as  you  politely  term  it?" 

"No;  I  can't  say  I  ever  did.  I'm  so  jolly  strong,  you 
know. " 

"And  you  wouldn't  have  much  respect  for  yourself 
if  you  did  'succumb,'  would  you?" 

"I  really  can't  say,  Mrs.  Spencer.  I'm  certain  I'd  be 
as  lenient  in  criticizing  myself  as  I  am  in  criticizing 
others." 

"Again  perhaps."  Lucy  was  determined  to  carry  her 
argument  through  to  the  finish.  "But  I  know  you 
wouldn't,  any  more  than  I  should.  I  should  hate  myself." 

"Don't  let  us  talk  of  anything  unpleasant,"  the  Captain 
protested,  "in  such  a  night  as  this." 

[69] 


THE    MOTH 


She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile.  "Quoting  again?" 
she  asked.  Then,  before  he  could  reply,  she  continued: 

"In  stick  a  night  as  this 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls 
And  sighed  his  soid  toward  the  Grecian  tents 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night." 

Auchester  responded  quickly  to  the  new  turn  her  mood 
had  taken.  Sitting  on  the  railing,  facing  her,  he  smiled 
back,  picking  up  the  quotation  where  she  left  it: 

"In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage." 

"And  in  such  a  night" 
Lucy  continued  audaciously, 

"  Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  loved  her  well, 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith  — " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  as  she  saw  the  smile  in  Auches- 
ter's  eyes  change  into  an  expression  so  filled  with  admira- 
tion that  it  frightened  her.  "What  am  I  saying?"  she 
exclaimed.  "I  forgot  how  it  ran  until  I  was  too  far  in 
to  stop.  That  comes  from  daring  to  compete  with  your 
familiarity  with  poetry." 

"This  moonlight  is  intoxicating,"  was  his  answer,  as 
he  moved  from  his  seat  on  the  railing  to  a  chair  which  he 
brought  up  beside  her,  placing  it  so  that  they  faced  each 
other.  "Moonlight,  poetry,  and  an  uncommonly  pretty 
woman,"  he  continued;  "Gad!  what  a  combination!" 

"Are  you  then  so  fond  of  all  three?" 
170] 


THE    MOTH 


"What  soldier  is  not!  Moonlight?  —  think  what  that 
means  out  on  the  desert,  or  in  the  mountain  recesses, 
after  nights  of  darkness  or  perhaps  of  storm !  Poetry?  —  is 
not  life  the  greatest  poem  which  was  ever  conceived?  That 
which  we  call  poetry  is  but  the  mechanical  contrivance 
for  setting  the  Great  Poem  in  motion  within  our  souls. 
This  may  be  verses  written  by  some  one  nearer  to  the 
center  of  things  than  we  are,  it  may  be  the  sight  of  our 
country's  flag,  it  may  be  the  odor  of  a  rose-leaf  conserve, 
as  it  was  one  night  at  your  home.  Woman? — what  shall 
I  say?  She  is  the  soldier's  aggravation.  He  can  hope 
for  no  home  life,  and  home  is  woman's  throne.  He  knows 
that  woman  is  not  for  him,  yet  he  permits  her  to  creep 
into  his  heart,  even  with  the  certain  knowledge  that  it 
means  pain  for  both.  He  may  admire,  he  may  worship, 
he  may  even  marry,  —  but  woman  does  not  belong  to  the 
soldier.  Separation  which  must  come,  the  necessity  of 
facing  death  with  no  thought  beyond  its  immediate  effect 
upon  himself,  —  all  this  precludes  woman  from  the  sol- 
dier's life;  yet  were  the  obstacles  multiplied  a  thousand- 
fold, they  could  not  keep  him  from  her." 

"That  is  why  you  have  never  married?"  Lucy  asked. 

"The  only  reason,"  he  replied  with  decision.  "While 
I  was  in  the  army,  marriage  could  have  meant  nothing  to 
any  woman  or  to  me.  When  my  brother  died,  two  years 
ago,  it  left  me  free  to  do  as  I  chose,  and  I  really  expected 
that  I  should  marry.  But  now  I  find  that  I  have  the 
fighting  fever  in  my  blood,  and  I  doubt  if  I  could  be 
content  to  settle  down  to  domesticity.  Then,  too,  I  have 
become  more  demanding  as  I  have  grown  older.  The 
woman  to  attract  me  now  must  have  more  to  give  than 
the  girl  to  win  whom  I  might  have  faced  dragons,  say 
ten  years  ago.  So  you  see  I  am  quite  hopeless.  But  when 

[71] 


THE    MOTH 


I  meet  a  woman  like  you,  with  beauty,  wit,  spirit  and 
independence,  I  sigh  even  more  at  my  hopeless  state 
because  they  exist  only  in  America,  and  such  as  they  are 
so  promptly  claimed." 

"It  is  very  agreeable  to  have  you  say  such  pleasant 
things,  but  I  fear  flattery  is  only  another  attribute  of 
the  soldier." 

"Even  were  that  so, you  could  easily  distinguish  between 
what  is  flattery  and  what  is  truth.  There  are  some  women 
I  might  flatter;  in  speaking  of  you,  even  to  yourself,  I 
can  but  understate  what  I  really  think." 

"I  fear  it  is  getting  very  late,"  she  suggested,  realizing 
for  the  first  time  how  long  they  had  been  talking. 

"Let  us  not  count  tonight  by  hours  or  by  minutes,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Spencer,"  Auchester  said,  assisting  her  to  rise 
from  the  chair.  "I  venture  to  hope  that  our  friendship 
may  grow  faster  than  could  be  marked  by  ordinary  time." 

"I  hope  it  may,"  Lucy  replied  simply. 

"Then,  good-night,"  he  said,  raising  to  his  lips  the  hand 
which  he  had  not  yet  released.  "Please  leave  me  to  lock 
up;  I  have  learned  how  from  Mr.  Spencer." 


172] 


VIII 


THE  following  day  was  filled  with  unusual  occur- 
rences. In  the  first  place,  Lucy  came  down  to 
breakfast  at  eight  o'clock,  —  an  event  which  had 
not  taken  place  within  the  memory  of  any  of  the  servants. 
Auchester  was  equally  surprised,  as  she  had  made  no 
suggestion  the  night  before,  when  he  explained  the  neces- 
sity of  taking  an  early  train,  other  than  her  fear  that  Vallie 
would  hardly  be  in  condition  to  motor  with  him  to  the 
city  in  time  for  him  to  keep  his  appointment.  In  fact, 
Lucy  had  not  been  certain  that  when  morning  came  she 
would  be  equal  to  the  emergency  of  coming  down  stairs 
to  prevent  him  from  having  a  solitary  breakfast,  but  she 
had  slept  little  during  the  night,  and  it  proved  a  relief 
to  get  away  from  herself  and  to  have  some  one  with  whom 
to  talk. 

"This  is  too  good  of  you,"  Auchester  exclaimed  as  he 
saw  her  entering  the  breakfast-room,  and  rose  to  meet  her. 
"You  should  not  have  done  it." 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  have  you  leave  us  with  only  the 
memory  of  last  evening,"  she  replied,  seating  herself 
opposite  him. 

"I  could  ask  for  no  sweeter  memory." 
Her  eyes  fell.    "You  know  what  I  mean." 
"That  was  forgotten  before  I  went  to  sleep  last  night," 
[73] 


THE    MOTH 


he  assured  her;  "but  the  picture  you  presented  as  I  came 
out  on  the  piazza  —  with  the  moonlight  coquetting  with 
your  hair,  and  casting  shadows  for  the  deliberate  purpose 
of  throwing  your  profile  into  beautiful  relief  —  I  shall 
never  forget.  You  won't  mind  if  I  take  that  away  with 
me,  will  you?" 

"  It  would  be  ungracious  to  deny  you  so  slight  a  request 
when  you  have  been  so  generous." 

"  What  can  I  do  to  make  you  believe  me?  "  he  demanded. 

"I  do  believe  you;  it  is  you  who  don't  believe  me." 

"I  don't  understand  — " 

"I'm  not  worrying  about  Vallie,"  she  explained;  "I'm 
just  upset  because  he  mortifies  me  before  my  friends. 
It's  really  self-pity,  you  see." 

Auchester  looked  at  her  seriously  for  a  moment.  "Then 
last  night's  expression  was  not  merely  momentary?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh  dear,  no!"  Lucy  replied  cheerfully.  "Vallie  is  a 
little  beast  most  of  the  time,  but  it's  only  when  something 
happens  like  last  night  to  call  my  attention  to  it,  or  when 
I  stop  to  think  about  it,  that  I  am  annoyed." 

Auchester  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  new  ex- 
perience, and  to  him  this  was  a  decided  and  an  agreeable 
novelty.  He  had  thought  that  he  knew  women,  but  Lucy 
completely  mystified  him.  The  light-hearted  manner 
in  which  she  spoke  of  what  would  naturally  be  considered 
a  domestic  tragedy  showed  either  an  astounding  strength 
of  will  or  an  astonishing  apathy;  he  could  not  decide 
which  it  was,  particularly  as  neither  one  appeared  to  fit 
in  with  her  other  characteristics.  He  was  almost  a  stranger 
to  her,  yet  she  spoke  of  these  intimate  relations  with  a 
freedom  usually  accompanied  by  abandon,  yet  the  art- 
lessness  of  her  frankness  denied  any  such  accompaniment. 

[74] 


THE    MOTH 


While  he  was  working  on  his  problem  the  maid  announced 
that  the  motor  was  at  the  door. 

"I  am  truly  sorry  to  say  goodbye."  Auchester  rose  and 
held  out  his  hand.  "Except  for  your  husband's  indis- 
cretion last  evening  I  should  not  have  had  the  delightful 
visit  with  you  by  moonlight,  nor  this  charming  tete-a-tete 
this  morning.  Personally  I  am  grateful  to  him,  and 
consider  his  act  the  height  of  hospitality." 

"What  time  do  you  have  to  be  in  town?"  Lucy  asked 
suddenly,  while  he  still  held  her  hand. 

"At  ten  o'clock." 

"Then  I'll  motor  up  with  you;  it  will  do  me  good  to 
get  some  air." 

"Splendid!"  he  cried,  as  she  turned  to  direct  the 
waiting  maid;  "this  is  the  jolliest  surprise  yet!" 

"You  are  sure  you  wouldn't  prefer  to  go  by  train?" 
she  demanded,  as  the  maid  returned  with  a  flower- 
bedecked  creation,  looking  up  at  him  archly  as  she  tied 
the  long  veil  about  her  head. 

"Well,  rather!"  he  laughed.  "This  beats  the  train  ride 
hands  down." 

"Then  off  we  go,"  she  cried  gaily,  leading  the  way  to 
the  motor,  closely  followed  by  her  guest.  "I'll  leave  you 
wherever  you  wish,  do  an  errand  or  two,  and  be  back  here 
for  luncheon." 

The  car  glided  smoothly  out  onto  the  main  road,  quickly 
leaving  the  house  behind  them.  Auchester  welcomed  the 
continuation  of  their  conversation,  for  he  was  determined 
to  solve  this  fascinating  problem.  Was  she  as  indifferent 
to  conventions  as  her  actions  proclaimed,  or  was  it  a  pose 
assumed  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  the  void  left  by 
her  husband's  failure  to  measure  up  to  the  standard  of 
other  men?  This  latter  hypothesis  seemed  the  likely 

[75] 


THE    MOTH 


one,  for  Auchester  had  come  to  know  Spencer  more 
intimately  during  the  few  days  covering  the  week-end 
than  during  the  entire  period  of  their  earlier  acquaintance, 
and  the  greater  intimacy  had  produced  the  usual  result. 
Up  to  this  time  he  had  considered  Vallie  and  Lucy  collec- 
tively. He  had  met  them  separately  it  is  true,  but  the 
same  day;  he  had  dined  with  them  together;  and  without 
seriously  analyzing  the  situation,  he  had  associated  them 
both  with  some  of  the  pleasantest  experiences  he  had 
enjoyed  in  America. 

The  three  days  just  ended  showed  Spencer  in  his  indi- 
vidual light,  and  the  result  was  illuminating.  Auchester 
possessed  an  inherent  gallantry  toward  women,  and  it 
angered  him  inwardly  to  see  his  host  so  indifferent  to  the 
ordinary  amenities  of  every-day  courtesy  toward  his  wife, 
whose  personal  attractions  should  demand  such  con- 
sideration, even  though  discounted  by  the  fact  of  actual 
possession.  The  Captain  had  counted  upon  seeing  much 
of  Lucy  during  his  visit,  and  to  be  so  summarily  dis- 
posed of  in  forms  of  recreation  which  appealed  to  him 
infinitely  less,  created  an  element  of  personal  resentment. 
Spencer  in  his  home,  basking  in  the  reflected  light  of  his 
wife's  brilliancy;  Spencer  in  his  club,  surrounded  by 
fellow-members  whose  presence  helped  to  conceal  his 
own  inferiority;  and  Spencer  dependent  upon  his  indi- 
vidual resources,  represented  three  distinct  personalities; 
and  it  was  the  individual  whom  Auchester  had  now 
come  to  know  and  was  growing  to  dislike. 

It  was  natural  that  he  should  have  heard  some  of  the 
gossip  about  Lucy,  but  on  the  whole  it  had  been  good- 
natured  and  served  only  to  stimulate  his  interest.  The 
fact  that  she  and  Cunningham  were  so  frequently  seen 
together  had  piqued  him  somewhat  until  he  learned  that 

[76] 


THE    MOTH 


she  made  herself  equally  agreeable  to  every  man  she  liked. 
She  was  unconventional,  she  was  full  of  life,  and  evidently 
did  her  best  to  extract  from  each  day's  experiences  all 
that  they  could  contribute  to  her  happiness,  but  in  this 
Auchester  found  an  expression  of  girlish  irresponsibility 
rather  than  the  deliberation  of  a  clever  woman  of  the 
world.  And  when  her  pride  had  been  touched,  as  it  was 
when  he  brought  Spencer  home  from  the  yacht,  she  laid 
bare  a  woman's  heart  with  which  he  could  but  sympathize. 

Still  the  problem  remained  unsolved.  Her  attitude  this 
morning  was  quite  different  from  the  mood  of  the  night 
before.  If  it  was  assumed,  as  his  second  hypothesis  seemed 
to  indicate,  then  she  was  the  most  extraordinary  woman 
he  had  ever  met;  if  it  was  but  another  expression  of  a 
temperament  which  existed  only  on  the  surface  of  life, 
and  was  too  shallow  to  feel  beyond  the  moment,  then  she 
was  merely  the  flitting  moth,  made  to  be  admired 
and  pursued  by  all  whom  she  attracted,  whether  her 
pursuers  possessed  themselves  of  the  regulation  net,  or 
simply  such  crude  implements  as  worldly  experience 
and  appealing  personality.  If  this  were  the  case,  then  he 
had  the  right  to  join  in  the  pursuit,  both  because  of  her 
husband's  indifference  and  because  it  was  the  inalienable 
privilege  of  a  British  subject  to  do  as  he  chose. 

So  the  conversation  on  the  way  to  town  was  deliber- 
ately experimental  in  its  nature,  and  he  found  that  his 
companion  responded  to  his  sallies,  which  became  more 
and  more  daring  as  his  experiment  progressed,  with  a 
light-heartedness  which  seemed  the  part  of  a  happy 
schoolgirl  just  released  from  the  burden  of  restraint. 
She  made  no  effort  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  being  with  him,  or  her  admiration  of 
certain  qualities  which  he  possessed.  Yet  with  all  that 

[77] 


THE    MOTH 


Auchester  said,  as  he  admitted  to  himself  afterwards, 
there  was  a  certain  limit  imposed  by  he  knew  not  what. 
She  met  him  on  his  own  ground  and  played  with  him  as 
cleverly  as  he  fenced  with  her.  The  expression  of  her  face, 
the  tilt  of  her  head,  the  sparkle  of  her  eyes  as  she  laughed 
merrily  back  at  him  would  have  tantalized  a  man  less 
experienced  in  the  ways  of  the  world.  To  Auchester  she 
had  become  a  fascinating  enigma.  He  told  her  other 
stories  of  his  life  in  interesting  and  almost  unknown 
portions  of  the  world,  and  watched  the  laughing  face 
subside;  he  touched  every  note  upon  which  his  skill  had 
learned  to  play,  and  found  the  response  so  quick  and  yet 
so  varied  that  it  urged  him  on  to  exert  his  utmost  powers. 
Yet  at  the  end,  as  the  car  ran  onto  the  Harvard  Bridge, 
he,  astute  student  of  the  world,  found  himself  no  nearer 
to  his  answer. 

"It  is  a  pity  that  you  never  married,"  she  told  him  with 
an  air  of  genuine  sincerity.  "It  is  selfish  in  a  man  of 
such  experiences  and  with  a  personality  such  as  yours  not 
to  share  himself  with  some  one  less  fortunate.  Think 
how  little  inspiration  most  of  us  ever  receive  from  our 
husbands ! " 

"It  is  the  blow  which  strikes  the  anvil  which  pro- 
duces the  spark,"  Auchester  replied  gallantly.  "If  you 
have  found  any  inspiration,  as  you  call  it,  from  what 
I  have  said,  it  is  because  you  have  brought  it  into 
being." 

"I'd  like  to  think  so,  —  really  I  would,"  she  laughed; 
"but  the  same  hammer  which  produces  the  spark  from 
the  anvil  annihilates  when  the  substance  it  strikes  is  of 
softer  metal." 

"Then  let  us  say  that  it  requires  two  conductors  at 
different  potentials  to  bring  forth  the  electric  scintillation." 

[78] 


"  Your  metaphors  are  not  convincing,"  she  laughed,  "for 
electricity  produces  a  shock;  and  that  is  what  we  women 
usually  get  from  our  husbands  when  we  try  to  scintillate. 
Try  again!" 

"I  give  it  up,"  Auchester  admitted,  joining  in  her 
merriment;  "you  are  too  much  for  me." 

"How  absurd!"  Lucy  insisted.  "I  shan't  let  you 
belittle  yourself.  Of  course,  you  know  how  agreeable 
and  fascinating  you  make  yourself!  I  don't  believe 
you  can  possibly  escape  some  one  of  our  progressive 
American  girls  if  you  make  yourself  as  irresistible  as 
you  have  to  me  this  morning;  and  if  a  widow  once  sets 
a  cap  for  you  —  well,  perhaps  you  know  how  energetic 
American  widows  are ! " 

Auchester  laughed  heartily.  "You  seem  bound  to  get 
rid  of  me,"  he  suggested. 

"On  the  contrary,  you  don't  suppose  I  would  urge  you 
to  marry  if  I  thought  it  would  deprive  me  of  your  inspiring 
society,  do  you?  I'm  far  too  selfish  for  that.  In  fact, 
the  only  advantage  I  have  ever  seen  in  being  married  is 
that  it  gives  one  a  license  to  enjoy  other  women's  husbands 
and  other  men's  wives." 

Auchester  smiled,  yet  her  reply  again  started  his  train 
of  thought.  Was  her  attitude  mere  bravado,  or  was  it  — 
he  refused  to  answer  even  to  himself.  Whatever  it  was 
had  increased  his  interest  in  her  a  thousandfold,  and  he 
wished  that  he  dared  to  tell  her  so  then  and  there. 

A  moment  later  the  car  slowed  down  in  front  of  the 
Badminton  Club.  "Well,"  he  said,  "here  we  are  all  too 
soon.  Why  don't  you  stay  in  town  a  little  longer  and  take 
luncheon  with  me?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  Lucy  replied  quickly.  "I'm  going 
to  lunch  with  Ned  Cunningham." 

[79] 


THE    MOTH 


The  Captain  looked  surprised.  "But  I  thought  you 
planned  to  return  home?"  he  asked  involuntarily.  "Is 
Mr.  Cunningham  expecting  you?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  explained.  "He  doesn't  know  I'm  to  be 
in  town  today;  but  as  long  as  I  am  here  I'm  sure  he  will 
be  glad  to  have  me  take  luncheon  with  him." 

Auchester  responded  with  his  phlegmatic  "Oh,"  but 
he  recovered  himself  quickly.  "Then  we  must  say 
goodbye,"  he  said. 

"Not  goodbye,"  she  corrected.  "I'm  not  enthusiastic 
about  another  week-end,  but  I'll  telephone  you  some  day 
soon  to  come  down  and  motor  with  me.  May  I  count  on 
you?" 

"Absolutely,"  replied  Auchester. 

He  stood  on  the  sidewalk  for  a  moment  or  two,  hat 
in  hand,  watching  the  car  disappear  in  the  distance. 
Then  he  smiled  grimly  and  shook  his  head  as  if  in  response 
to  some  thought  which  came  to  him  as  he  turned  and 
entered  the  club. 


[80] 


IX 


THE  idea  of  lunching  with  Cunningham  had  not 
occurred  to  Lucy  until  Auchester  extended  his 
invitation,  yet  it  appealed  more  and  more  as  the 
car  ran  down  Boylston  Street  into  the  city.  She  could 
easily  spend  a  couple  of  hours  shopping,  and  then  she 
would  drop  in  at  Ned's  office,  surprise  him,  and  relieve 
him  of  the  necessity  of  having  a  stupid  luncheon  all  by 
himself.  The  plan  worked  out  perfectly  in  her  mind,  and 
she  rather  prided  herself  on  having  thought  of  it  so  quickly 
when  the  Captain  made  his  proposition.  Of  course,  she 
might  have  lunched  with  him.  He  was  most  agreeable,  and 
it  would  have  been  delightful  to  continue  the  companion- 
ship of  the  morning;  but  she  had  promised  Ned  to  be  more 
discreet,  and  he  would  be  pleased  wrhen  she  told  him  just 
what  had  happened.  Dear,  good  old  Ned !  He  was  indeed 
her  friend,  and  now  that  Margaret  knew  all  about  the 
one  silly  thing  she  had  done,  she  could  rely  on  him  more 
than  ever  without  the  slightest  possible  chance  of  any 
misunderstanding.  Yes,  it  was  a  happy  thought,  and  Lucy 
radiated  satisfaction  as  she  went  from  one  store  to  another, 
purchasing  from  sheer  love  of  buying  rather  than  because 
she  really  wished  anything,  and  because  she  was  now  as 
supremely  happy  as  she  had  been  utterly  miserable  the 
night  before. 

6  [81] 


THE    MOTH 


It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  been  to  Cunningham's 
office,  but  she  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  her  own  lawyer's 
when  it  was  necessary  to  sign  papers  or  to  go  through  the> 
formality  of  discussing  the  investments  of  her  consider- 
able property,  so  she  knew  that  it  was  a  perfectly  proper 
thing  to  do.  The  motor  stopped  in  front  of  the  entrance 
to  the  great  stone  building  on  State  Street,  and  Lucy 
tripped  lightly  up  the  steps,  found  the  numbers  of  Cun- 
ningham's offices  from  the  directory,  and  stepped  con- 
fidently into  the  elevator.  A  moment  later  she  handed 
her  card  to  the  boy  who  came  to  the  rail  in  the  outer  office 
to  meet  her,  and  was  presently  ushered  into  the  larger 
room,  where  Cunningham  advanced  to  give  her  a  surprised 
welcome. 

"Hullo,  Ned,"  she  exclaimed  before  he  had  a  chance 
to  speak.  "I've  come  in  to  have  luncheon  with  you." 

"Well,  well,"  he  laughed,  "this  is  an  unexpected 
pleasure.  I  had  pictured  you  still  sitting  on  that  beauti- 
ful moonlit  piazza  where  we  left  you  last  evening;  but 
as  I  come  to  think  it  over  it  wouldn't  be  moonlit  at  this 
time  of  the  day,  would  it?" 

"Hardly,"  Lucy  granted,  "  and  I  never  sit  out  there 
all  night.  After  midnight  the  sea  air  is  very  injurious  to 
the  complexion,  and  we  women  have  to  be  so  careful  of 
our  complexions,  Ned." 

"I  see.  Then  perhaps  that  explains  your  visit  to  the 
city  this  morning." 

"You  wretch,  to  suggest  such  a  thing!  You  don't 
deserve  it,  but  I'll  tell  you  just  why  I  did  come:  Captain 
Auchester  brought  Vallie  home  last  night  suffering  from 
one  of  his  very  worst  attacks.  I  rode  up  in  the  motor 
with  the  Captain  to  avoid  seeing  the  little  beast  this 
morning,  and  came  here  to  have  luncheon  with  you  be- 

[82] 


THE    MOTH 


cause  the  Captain  invited  me  to  lunch  with  him,  and  I 
was  afraid  you  wouldn't  approve.  That  is  what  I  call 
heaping  coals  of  fire.  It  was  the  only  way  I  could  get 
out  of  it,  and  besides  I  wanted  to  lunch  with  you.  Aren't 
you  properly  ashamed  of  yourself  and  proud  of  me?" 

"Of  course  I'm  proud  of  you,"  Cunningham  admitted, 
quickly  sensing  that  she  really  felt  herself  to  be  acting 
with  praiseworthy  discretion;  "and  I'm  always  ashamed 
of  myself." 

"I  don't  quite  see  how  it's  all  going  to  end,"  she  con- 
tinued seriously  a  moment  later.  "Valliegets  more  and 
more  stupid,  and  the  other  men  I  meet  seem  more  and  more 
agreeable.  I'm  trying  hard  to  do  what  you  and  Margaret 
want  me  to  do,  Ned,  but  that  leaves  you  the  only  man  I 
can  play  with  in  perfect  safety,  and  you  are  inconsiderate 
enough  to  be  in  business  and  not  even  down  at  the  shore 
at  other  times.  Margaret  and  I  might  divide  you  up, 
but  this  long-distance  companionship  isn't  exactly  the 
thing  for  an  active  disposition.  What  do  you  suggest?" 

"I  suggest  that  we  run  out  and  have  lunch,"  Cunning- 
ham replied,  looking  at  his  watch.  "Is  your  car  outside?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  suppose  we  go  to  the  Touraine;  it  will  be  as 
comfortable  there  as  anywhere." 

Cunningham  had  not  counted  upon  this  as  one  of  the 
results  of  his  self-appointed  guardianship,  yet  with  Lucy 
in  so  tractable  a  frame  of  mind  he  felt  his  responsibility 
more  than  ever.  Had  the  question  been  fairly  put  to  him, 
he  would  have  been  obliged  to  admit  that  he  himself  was 
not  wise  enough  to  foresee  any  satisfactory  outcome  to  the 
unfortunate  domestic  conditions  existing  in  the  Spencer 
household;  and  if  he  could  not  prophesy,  how  could  he 
expect  Lucy,  whose  only  responsibility  in  life  had  been 

[83] 


THE    MOTH 


a  more  or  less  successful  quest  for  personal  happiness,  to 
succeed  where  he  had  failed?  The  advice  which  he  and 
Margaret  had  given  her  had  not  been  constructive:  it 
prevented  her  from  finding  her  enjoyment  in  the  only 
way  she  knew,  and  gave  her  nothing  to  take  its  place. 
Here  was  where  his  responsibility  began,  and  until  he  or 
Margaret  or  both  of  them  succeeded  in  creating  some 
new  interest  for  her  they  must  be  prepared  to  give  of 
themselves  to  fill  the  void. 

All  this  was  passing  through  his  mind  while  Lucy  chat- 
ted on  in  a  happy,  self-satisfied  monologue.  She  was  so 
glad  that  he  approved  of  what  she  had  done.  Of  course 
she  knew  he  must  approve,  for  this  was  exactly  what  he 
and  Margaret  had  urged  upon  her.  They  were  right,  — 
she  could  see  it  now,  and  they  were  dear,  sweet  friends  to 
take  enough  interest  in  her  to  speak  so  frankly.  From 
now  on  she  would  keep  her  impulses  under  control.  She 
would  enjoy  her  friends,  but  in  a  different  way.  He  and 
Margaret  must  help  her  still  and  be  patient  with  her, 
for  it  was  a  new  experience  to  hold  herself  account- 
able to  any  one,  and  leopards  were  slow  to  change  their 
spots. 

Cunningham  heard  little  or  nothing  of  what  she  was 
saying,  being  only  conscious  that  at  last  there  was  a 
pause.  Then  he  excused  himself  and  disappeared  within 
the  telephone  booth,  from  which  he  emerged  a  moment 
later,  picking  up  his  hat  and  cane  as  he  came  towards  her. 

"She  isn't  there,"  he  announced. 

Lucy  laughed  merrily.  "Whom  do  you  usually  keep 
in  that  little  box,  and  why  isn't  she  there?" 

"Margaret,  I  mean.  I  thought  we  might  get  her  to 
lunch  with  us,  but  I  remember  now  she  said  this  morning 
that  she  was  going  out  somewhere." 

[84] 


THE    MOTH 


"I'm  so  glad,  Ned,"  Lucy  replied  frankly.  "Is  that 
horrid  of  me?  Of  course  I'd  love  to  see  Margaret,  but 
today  I  want  to  have  a  real  intimate  talk  with  you.  Do 
you  mind  taking  luncheon  alone  with  me?" 

"Of  course  not,"  he  answered  quickly.  "I  thought  it 
would  be  pleasanter  for  you,  that's  all." 

"Then  come.  We'll  go  to  the  Touraine,  have  a  quiet, 
cozy  little  visit,  and  then  I'll  motor  back  to  Beverly  and 
the  Beast." 

"You  must  not  speak  of  Vallie  like  that,"  Cunningham 
expostulated.  "You'll  say  it  some  time  when  some  one 
will  hear  it  who  ought  not  to.  You  didn't  make  any 
break  like  that  before  Auchester,  I  hope?" 

Lucy  laughed.  "You  forget  that  the  Captain  brought 
him  home.  I  don't  believe  I  could  tell  him  anything 
about  Yallie  that  he  doesn't  know." 

They  found  a  quiet  corner  in  the  restaurant  at  the  hotel, 
and  Cunningham  ordered  a  luncheon  of  fussed-up  noth- 
ings, salad,  and  ices,  in  which  all  women  delight,  and  Lucy 
in  particular.  He  had  taken  little  part  in  the  conversation 
since  they  had  left  the  office,  his  mind  being  actively 
engaged  in  planning  out  what  he  felt  he  ought  to  say. 
Finding  him  preoccupied,  and  having  exhausted  her 
present  line  of  thought,  Lucy  glanced  about  the  room. 

"Ned,"  she  said  suddenly,  "who  is  that  elderly  party 
leveling  her  lorgnette  at  us,  —  is  she  looking  at  you  or 
at  me?" 

Cunningham  turned  in  the  direction  Lucy  indicated. 
"It  looks  like  that  caller  who  left  your  house  in  such  high 
spirits  the  first  Sunday  Margaret  and  I  were  down  there." 

"It  is,  as  sure  as  I  live,"  she  exclaimed,  "Mrs.  Chan- 
ning,  the  two  girls,  and  —  yes,  that's  Mr.  Channing. 
What  a  cunning  little  family  party!  See  how  longingly 

[85] 


THE    MOTH 


the  girls  look  over  at  us!  I'll  just  give  her  one  more  shock, 
for  luck,"  and  Lucy,  holding  up  her  cocktail  glass  as  if 
drinking  her  health,  bowed  profoundly. 

The  lorgnette  was  lowered  instantly,  and  from  the 
attempts  made  by  the  three  other  persons  at  the  table 
to  explain  the  situation  to  Mr.  Channing,  it  was  quite 
evident  that  Lucy  had  succeeded  in  her  purpose. 

"What  is  the  use  of  antagonizing?"  Cunningham 
asked. 

Lucy's  smile  vanished.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  said  simply. 
"There's  something  about  that  woman  that  makes  me 
forget  all  my  good  resolutions.  You  don't  know  how  she 
irritates  me.  I  could  almost  be  nasty  to  her  if  I  had  the 
chance.  That  man  is  her  second  husband,  isn't  he?" 

"Third,  I  believe,"  Cunningham  corrected. 

"Good  gracious!"  Lucy  exclaimed;  "then  he  isn't  a 
husband,  —  he's  a  habit." 

"Most  husbands  are  that,  whether  they're  firsts  or 
thirds." 

"And  mine  is  a  bad  habit,  —  and  there  you  are!" 
Lucy  concluded  triumphantly. 

,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  bit  about  Vallie,"  Cunningham 
said,  taking  prompt  advantage  of  his  opening.  "You 
asked  me  a  while  ago  what  I  thought  would  be  the 
end  of  this  situation,  and  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  just  as  I 
would  tell  a  client  who  asked  me  the  same  question." 

"Well?"  she  queried  as  he  paused. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  divorce  or  a  scandal." 

The  color  left  Lucy's  face.  "It  couldn't  be  a  divorce," 
she  said  at  length. 

"Why  not?" 

"What  would  Vallie  have  to  live  on  without  the  allow- 
ance from  my  property?" 

[86] 


THE    MOTH 


Cunningham  started,  as  this  was  a  revelation  to  him; 
but  he  was  relieved  to  see  that  his  companion  had  not 
noticed  his  surprise.  "Don't  think  that  I  am  recom- 
mending anything,  Lucy,  —  I'm  simply  answering  your 
query.  But  if  the  question  of  separation  ever  did  come 
up,  I  presume  Vallie  could  still  be  provided  for." 

"Why  do  you  think  the  only  other  alternative  is  scan- 
dal?" she  asked.  "I  have  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  and 
no  harm  has  ever  come  from  anything  I've  already  done." 

Cunningham  smiled  back  at  her  kindly.  "It  need 
not  necessarily  come  from  you,  —  Vallie  is  just  as  apt 
to  be  responsible  for  it;  but,  my  dear  girl,  I  beg  of  you 
not  to  feel  that  you  are  in  absolute  safety  just  because 
you've  made  some  good  resolutions.  I  know  —  and  all 
your  real  friends  know  —  that  you  are  as  true  a  little 
woman  as  ever  lived,  but  we  also  know  that  you  have 
indulged  your  impulses  ever  since  you  were  old  enough 
to  have  them ;  and  it  will  take  more  time  than  has  elapsed 
since  your  resolutions  took  tangible  form  to  make  sure 
that  you  are  strong  enough  to  live  up  to  them  day  by  day. 
You  said  the  same  thing  a  moment  ago  yourself." 

Lucy  was  silent  for  several  moments  after  Cunningham 
ceased  speaking,  and  he  was  glad  to  see  that  what  he  said 
had  made  its  impression  upon  her.  In  his  eagerness  to 
make  clear  to  her  the  seriousness  of  the  situation  he  had 
entirely  lost  sight  of  the  personal  perspective,  which  had 
earlier  concerned  him  enough  to  telephone  Margaret, 
hoping  to  get  her  to  lunch  with  them.  He  had  lost  sight 
of  the  fact  that  the  very  nature  of  their  conversation,  and 
the  low  tone  in  which  it  was  conducted,  necessitated  a 
closeness  of  attention,  each  upon  the  other,  which  might 
easily  appear  significant  to  any  one  who  was  only  too 
eager  to  find  some  meaning  in  their  presence  together.  He 

[87] 


THE    MOTH 


had  forgotten  the  Channings.  Never  had  he  tried  harder 
to  present  a  convincing  case  to  a  jury,  —  but  in  the  court- 
room he  stood  as  the  accepted  champion  of  his  client; 
never  had  he  been  more  disinterested  from  a  personal 
standpoint,  —  but  in  the  courtroom  his  words  were  heard 
and  his  motives  understood;  never  had  he  been  more 
anxious  to  serve  a  client's  interests,  —  but  in  the  court- 
room there  could  be  no  possibility  of  misinterpreting  his 
relations  to  his  client. 

Lucy  was  as  oblivious  to  all  about  her  as  he.  Cunning- 
ham's words  had  pierced  through  her  armor  of  pride  and 
self-contentment,  and  had  made  their  impress  upon  her 
heart.  All  the  ugly  stories  she  had  heard  or  read  of 
divorce  courts  and  scandals  rose  before  her,  and  she 
almost  felt  the  grip  of  the  hideous  specters  which  Cun- 
ningham had  conjured  up.  She  looked  suddenly  full  into 
his  face,  and  he  could  read  there  the  fright  and  abhorrence 
which  was  chilling  her  blood. 

"Come,"  she  said  suddenly;  "let's  get  out  into  the 
sunlight.  I  shall  scream  if  I  stay  here  longer." 

"Not  quite  yet,"  Cunningham  urged,  encouraged  by 
her  evident  distress.  "As  we  have  been  sitting  here  I 
have  thought  of  a  solution,  and  I'm  ashamed  of  myself 
not  to  have  had  it  occur  to  me  before." 

"And  that  is?"  Lucy  demanded. 

"Your  children." 

"My  children?"  she  repeated  interrogatively,  not 
sensing  his  meaning.  "Larry  and  Babs?" 

"Yes;  how  much  do  they  mean  to  you?" 

"Why  —  what  a  curious  question!    I'm  their  mother." 

"I  know,  but  how  much  do  they  contribute  to  your 
Kfe,  and  how  much  do  you  give  to  them?" 

"Why,  practically  nothing  —  yet;  but  they're  only 
[88] 


THE    MOTH 


little  children.  I  expect  a  great  deal  of  comfort  from 
them  when  they  are  old  enough  to  be  companionable." 

"Do  you  love  them,  Lucy?"  he  persisted. 

"Why,  Ned,  what  wretched  questions  you  are  asking! 
Of  course  I  love  them.  They're  my  children." 

"You  told  me  once  that  you  never  loved  any  one  ex- 
cept yourself.  Is  that  true?" 

"  I  didn't  intend  to  put  it  quite  as  flatly  as  that.  I  know 
I'm  selfish  —  in  a  way;  but  the  children  have  never 
lacked  care  or  attention,  and  they  have  been  gratified 
in  their  desires  far  more  than  is  good  for  them." 

"Well,  we've  had  enough  enigmas,  and  there's  no  use 
of  mincing  matters.  What  I  mean  is  this:  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  can  ever  get  much  comfort  or  companionship 
out  of  Vallie.  Enjoyment  may  properly  come  to  you  from 
the  legitimate  companionship  of  your  friends,  but  the 
only  safe  or  possible  outlet  for  your  affection  —  and  I 
know  you  must  express  that  in  one  way  or  another  —  is 
in  the  direction  of  your  children.  I'm  not  criticizing  your 
present  relations  with  them:  I  have  no  doubt  that  they 
are  receiving  better  care  than  you  could  possibly  give 
them  yourself,  but  it  is  hired  care.  I'm  really  not  thinking 
of  them  in  this  matter  at  all.  For  your  own  sake  let  them 
be  the  great  object  of  life  for  you,  and  make  all  else  become 
subordinate.  Be  with  them  when  they're  disagreeable 
as  well  as  when  they're  angelic;  see  how  patient  you  can 
be,  and  test  yourself  at  every  point.  Make  them  love 
you  more  than  Susette  or  any  one  else  in  the  world,  and 
see  how  jealous  you  will  become  of  having  already  lost 
so  much  in  their  childish  development.  And  then,  best 
of  all,  see  how  quickly  your  life  will  respond  to  that  love 
which  they  will  give  back  to  you,  see  how  the  little  fingers 
will  twine  themselves  around  your  heart-strings,  and  see 

189] 


THE    MOTH 


how  much  strength  those  tiny  hands  possess  to  help  you 
bear  the  disappointments  which  are  bound  to  come. 
This  is  the  solution,  Lucy,  —  this  is  your  salvation.  Will 
you  work  it  out?" 

"Let  me  go  now,  Ned,"  she  answered,  furtively  wiping 
her  eyes.  "If  you  don't,  we  shall  have  a  scene  here  which 
we  never  can  explain  to  Margaret  —  or  to  any  one  else." 

With  an  effort  she  regained  her  composure,  and  with  a 
smile,  different  from  any  that  Cunningham  had  ever 
seen  upon  her  face,  she  looked  full  into  his  eyes. 

"Ned,"  she  said  firmly,  "you  are  the  finest  man  I 
know,  and  I  wish  Margaret  could  hear  me  say  that  I  love 
you  as  I  never  loved  any  one;  yet  it  is  an  affection  which 
she  would  be  proud  to  have  another  woman  acknowledge 
for  her  husband.  I  love  you  for  your  strength,  your 
courage,  your  judgment,  your  friendship.  I  can't  tell 
you  what  I  will  do  —  I  don't  know  myself,  —  but  I'll 
try  to  be  the  woman  I  ought  to  be  to  deserve  a  friend  like 
you.  I  won't  take  you  back  to  the  office.  I  want  to  go 
home  now  and  fix  every  word  you've  said  so  firmly  in  my 
heart  that  I  never  can  forget  a  single  one.  Goodbye." 

There  was  no  word  spoken  as  they  passed  quietly  out 
of  the  dining-room  to  the  side  door  on  Tremont  Street, 
where  the  motor  awaited  them.  Cunningham  helped  Lucy 
into  the  tonneau  and  waved  a  pleased  farewell  as  the  car 
turned  up  Boylston  Street  in  response  to  her  instructions. 


[90] 


WHEN  Lucy  had  replied  to  Auchester's  question 
that  her  feeling  of  mortification  at  her  hus- 
band's manner  of  living  came  only  when  the 
fact  was  laid  bare  with  particular  emphasis,  she  really 
believed  that  no  important  change  in  the  situation  had 
taken  place.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  not  until  this 
summer  that  Spencer  had  felt  himself  to  be  coming  into 
his  own.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  hung  onto  the  fringe  of 
several  little  cliques  in  the  clubs  to  which  he  belonged, 
without  being  an  integral  part  of  any  one  of  them,  but 
with  the  advent  of  Auchester,  and  through  his  popularity, 
he  found  himself  firmly  intrenched  among  a  select  number 
of  congenial  spirits  who  believed  that  real  life  consisted 
in  touching  only  the  high  places.  It  was  curious  that  the 
Captain  should  have  been  the  unconscious  means  to  this 
end,  for  he  found  these  particular  friends  of  Vallie  too 
rapid  for  a  man  of  even  his  experience,  and  he  associated 
with  them  only  when  to  avoid  them  would  have  appeared 
an  affront.  A  remark  which  he  had  overheard  in  the 
club  that  "Eustis  was  too  much  of  a  speed-boy  to  be 
possible  as  a  constant  companion"  exactly  described  his 
feelings  toward  them;  but  Spencer  in  their  company  was 
enjoying  life  to  the  utmost. 

The  change  which  all  this  occasioned  in  him  was  only 
[91] 


THE    MOTH 


beginning  to  make  itself  apparent.  Until  now,  while 
living  his  own  life,  such  as  it  was,  he  had  been  essentially 
a  negative  factor  in  his  own  household.  Lucy  long  since 
had  ceased  to  depend  on  him  for  anything  beyond  that 
respectability  which  a  husband  is  supposed  to  confer 
upon  a  woman  by  giving  her  the  right  to  bear  his  name. 
It  was  seldom  that  she  consulted  him  or  interfered  with 
his  plans  except  when  they  conflicted  with  some  social 
engagement  which  she  thought  wise  to  accept  together. 
At  such  times  Vallie  was  likely  to  fume  a  little,  or  more  if 
the  disappointment  was  greater;  but  there  never  was  a 
doubt  in  Lucy's  mind  that  he  would  be  ready  to  accom- 
pany her  at  the  appointed  hour. 

On  the  other  hand,  Spencer  made  no  criticism  of  his 
wife's  friends  or  of  her  manner  of  living.  While  others 
were  free  to  take  exceptions,  he  was  gratified  rather  than 
annoyed  by  the  rumors  of  other  men's  reported  infatua- 
tion for  her,  considering  it  an  indirect  compliment  to 
himself.  There  was  no  question  in  his  mind  that  Lucy 
was  quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself,  having  wit- 
nessed the  ease  with  which  she  managed  him.  He  had 
found  her  a  comfortable  wife  to  live  with,  as  she  asked 
few  questions,  and  made  no  objections  to  the  constantly 
increasing  overdrafts  upon  her  income  beyond  the 
liberal  allowance  which  her  father,  before  his  death,  had 
stipulated  should  be  his  maximum.  All  in  all,  until  now, 
it  had  been  a  "comfortable"  arrangement,  and  he  him- 
self was  as  surprised  as  any  one  to  discover,  after  a  few 
weeks'  life  with  the  "speed-boys,"  that  he  was  becoming 
discontented. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  he  came  down  stairs  on  the 
morning  Auchester  departed  after  the  enlightening  week- 
end. He  felt  disagreeable  and  generally  out  of  sorts,  and 

[92] 


his  first  annoyance  was  to  discover  that  Lucy  had  gone  to 
town.  Not  that  he  was  particularly  anxious  to  see  her, 
but  as  even  the  children  had  been  taken  to  the  beach  by 
the  ever-watchful  Susette,  there  was  no  one  left  in  the 
house  upon  whom  to  vent  his  ill-humor  except  the  serv- 
ants, and  he  could  find  no  vast  amount  of  amusement  in 
that.  His  second  annoyance  came  while  he  was  sitting 
disconsolate  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  piazza,  trying  to 
focus  his  attention  upon  the  morning  paper.  Why  the 
fool  maid  should  not  have  known  better  than  to  bring 
him  a  tray  bearing  a  carefully  prepared  breakfast,  when 
he  had  been  debating  with  himself  for  an  hour  whether 
or  not  a  bottle  of  French  vichy  would  be  too  hearty,  was 
more  than  he  could  understand.  And  to  cap  the  climax 
the  morning  mail,  which  he  had  only  now  found  strength 
and  energy  enough  to  open,  contained  a  notice  that  his 
bank  account  was  overdrawn,  and  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances he  would  not  dare  to  draw  again  on  Lucy's  account 
for  ten  days  or  so,  lest  she  should  begin  to  take  notice. 

"They're  a  bunch  of  welchers,"  he  exclaimed  aloud, 
as  his  mind  with  some  difficulty  ran  back  over  the  checks 
he  had  drawn  during  the  past  few  days.  "They  must 
have  run  right  up  to  the  bank  Saturday  morning  and 
deposited.  Afraid  of  'em,  eh?  That's  what  they  are,  — 
a  bunch  of  welchers ! " 

This  completed  the  consignment  of  all  whom  he  could 
call  to  mind  at  that  time  except  the  Captain,  and  he  was 
not  to  escape.  Spencer  was  conscious  from  a  number  of 
unimportant  happenings  during  Auchester's  visit  that 
the  friendship  of  which  he  had  been  so  proud  was  waning; 
and  of  course  it  was  the  Captain's  fault.  It  was  plain 
to  him,  as  he  thought  matters  over  carefully  in  the  clear 
light  of  the  morning,  that  Auchester  had  used  him  as  a 

[93] 


THE    MOTH 


stepping-stone  to  his  own  advancement.  Now  that  he 
had  made  his  own  friends,  and  was  accepted  because  of 
his  own  personality,  he  was  ready  to  kick  the  ladder  from 
beneath  his  feet.  This  was  the  basest  treachery  of  all, 
and  it  became  blacker  as  Spencer  dwelt  upon  it.  He 
would  assert  himself.  He  would  be  the  head  of  his  house- 
hold, he  would  tell  other  people  what  to  do,  instead  of 
allowing  himself  to  be  pulled  hither  and  thither  and  finally 
treated  as  a  discard  by  a  man  who  owed  his  position  in 
America  to  what  he,  his  friend,  had  been  willing  to  do  for 
him.  As  for  the  money,  it  belonged  to  him  as  much 
as  it  did  to  Lucy,  and  there  was  enough  of  it  to  put  him 
beyond  the  need  of  any  such  humiliating  worry.  Lucy 
had  made  no  objection  as  yet,  but  of  course  that  would 
be  the  next  step,  and  he  was  prepared  to  meet  it. 

The  automobile  and  Lucy  returned  between  three  and 
four  in  the  afternoon.  Vallie  had  been  expecting  her  for 
hours,  and  his  vigil  had  not  improved  his  temper,  but  it 
had  added  to  his  determination.  At  first  he  had  decided 
to  meet  the  car  at  the  steps  and  to  issue  an  ultimatum 
on  the  spot.  From  this  point  he  veered  to  that  of  the 
injured  husband,  and  by  the  time  he  heard  the  machine 
running  up  the  driveway  he  had  selected  the  role  of  the 
neglected  invalid,  sorely  in  need  of  sympathy  and  care, 
as  the  most  effective  expedient. 

Lucy  came  into  the  hallway,  pulled  aside  the  hangings 
at  the  door  of  the  living-room  in  which  Vallie  was  lying, 
stretched  out  miserably  upon  the  couch,  turned  aside 
without  remark,  and  started  up  the  stairs. 

"Lucy,"  Spencer  called,  when  it  became  apparent  that 
she  was  passing  out  of  hearing. 

She  paused,  half-way  up  the  stairs.  "Well,"  she  called 
back,  "what  is  it?" 

[94] 


THE    MOTH 


"I  want  to  see  you,"  the  voice  continued. 

"I  can't  stop  now;   I'm  looking  for  the  children." 

"Lucy,"  the  voice  demanded,  more  peremptorily. 

Surprised  by  the  tone  she  retraced  her  steps  and  again 
stood  in  the  doorway.  "Is  anything  the  matter?"  she 
inquired. 

"I'm  sick,"  he  said,  his  head  falling  back  on  the  com- 
fortable pillow  he  had  placed  beneath  it. 

"That  doesn't  surprise  me  any,"  she  remarked.  "What 
do  you  suggest,  a  doctor  or  a  stomach  pump?  Why  don't 
you  have  Victor  telephone  for  you?  Do  you  know 
where  the  children  are?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  assuming  a  sitting  position,  "I  don't 
know  where  anybody  or  anything  is.  WTiy  did  you  go 
away  this  morning?" 

"Why?"  Lucy  echoed,  surprised.  "There  isn't  any 
why.  I  just  did  it." 

"I  needed  the  car  to  get  to  my  office." 

Lucy  smiled.     "Weren't  the  trains  running,  Vallie?" 

"You're  trying  to  be  disagreeable,"  he  retorted;  "I 
won't  stand  for  it." 

"You'd  better  go  back  up  stairs  and  sleep  it  off," 
she  replied  indulgently.  "I'm  in  an  angelic  humor,  but 
I  want  to  see  Larry  and  Babs." 

Spencer  made  two  or  three  further  efforts  to  bring  about 
a  discussion,  but  Lucy  refused  to  take  his  remarks  with 
sufficient  seriousness  to  become  annoyed,  so  his  abuse  of 
her  gave  him  no  greater  satisfaction  than  his  browbeating 
of  the  servants.  Finally  she  made  her  escape  to  the 
floor  above,  while  he  retired  to  the  piazza  to  complete 
his  sulk. 

"Where  are  my  children?"  Lucy  demanded,  entering 
the  governess'  room  and  startling  all  three  by  her  un- 

[95] 


THE    MOTH 


expected  question.  Seeing  herself  at  the  end  of  her  quest, 
she  seated  herself  in  a  great  chair  and  held  out  her  arms. 
"Come  to  mother,"  she  said. 

"I  haven't  done  anything,"  Larry  protested,  hanging 
back,  while  Babs  promptly  burst  into  tears  and  flew  for 
protection  to  Susette. 

Lucy's  color  heightened  at  the  repulse,  but  Ned  had 
cautioned  her  to  be  patient.  "Of  course  you  haven't 
done  anything,  my  darlings,"  she  said  propitiatingly. 
"Come  to  mother  and  tell  her  what  game  you  are 
playing." 

Larry  looked  questioningly  at  Susette,  and  then  slowly 
obeyed.  Lucy  was  indignant  that  he  seemed  to  require 
the  governess'  permission  and  encouragement.  "When 
I  tell  you  to  come  to  me,  Larry,  you  don't  need  to  look 
at  Susette.  Come  at  once." 

The  hesitation  in  Larry's  steps  increased  and  Babs' 
sobs  became  louder. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  stop  that  child's  crying!"  Lucy 
exclaimed. 

"But  you  frighten  them,  madame,"  the  governess 
explained. 

"Frighten  them?  —  their  own  mother  frighten  them? 
It's  perfectly  ridiculous!" 

"But  they  have  seen  you  so  little,  madame.  One  must 
be  gentle  —  " 

"  I  never  heard  anything  so  absurd,"  Lucy  cried,  rising 
and  thoroughly  at  her  wits'  end.  "They  have  never 
been  afraid  of  me." 

"No,  madame;  but  you  have  never  come  to  them  like 
this  before.  They  have  only  seen  you  for  a  moment  at  a 
time  or  at  the  table,  and  now  they  think  you  are  angry 
with  them." 

(96] 


THE    MOTH 


"Then  I  suppose  I  must  take  lessons  in  the  proper 
way  to  approach  my  own  children,"  she  replied.  She 
turned  suddenly  to  Larry.  "Are  you  afraid  of  me?"  she 
demanded. 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"And  you?"  turning  to  Babs;  but  the  only  response 
was  a  dismal  wail  as  the  little  girl  buried  her  head  in 
Susette's  arms. 

Lucy  left  the  room  without  further  remark  and  took 
refuge  in  her  own.  "And  these  are  to  be  my  salvation!" 
she  exclaimed  bitterly.  "This  is  the  solution  to  my 
problem!" 

She  threw  herself  at  full  length  upon  the  divan  at  the 
foot  of  her  bed  and  thought  for  a  long  time.  Suddenly 
an  idea  came  to  her  which  caused  her  to  spring  to  her  feet 
and  brought  back  the  smile  to  her  face.  "Dear  old  Ned," 
she  said  half -aloud.  "He  meant  it  for  the  best,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  he  believed  it;  but  he  hasn't  any  children, 
so  of  course  he  couldn't  know.  That  was  his  legal  advice! 
It's  a  good  joke  on  Ned,  —  I  must  tell  him  about  it.' 


197] 


XI 


VALLIE'S  recovery  from  his  "attack"  dated  from 
the  moment  when  his  intellect,  as  he  was  pleased 
to  call  it,  came  to  a  full  realization  that  for  the 
present  it  was  a  physical  impossibility  to  stir  things  up 
with  Lucy  to  the  point  of  creating  the  "scene"  which  his 
sense  of  injured  importance  really  craved.  He  was  per- 
fectly familiar  with  her  varying  humors,  and  the  special 
one  which  had  happened  to  possess  her  when  he  tried 
to  make  her  angry  was,  he  knew,  invulnerable,  and 
likely  to  lead  on  to  ridicule  and  personal  humiliation. 
Spencer's  most  promising  faculty  was  a  fairly  accurate 
knowledge  of  his  own  limitations,  and  in  his  present  con- 
dition he  was  well  aware  that  Lucy  would  be  more  than 
his  match  in  any  sort  of  an  encounter.  Having  arrived 
at  this  conclusion  his  mind  then  turned  to  Auchester.  He 
would  like  to  have  matters  out  with  him,  but  the  chances 
of  finding  this  opportunity  for  several  days  to  come  were 
too  remote  to  afford  even  momentary  relief.  This  process 
of  elimination  left  the  habitues  of  Eustis'  yacht  the  sole 
remaining  objects  of  his  resentment,  and  his  thought  of 
them  suggested  immediate  action. 

With  an  agility  remarkable  for  an  invalid,  Spencer 
ordered  the  car  and  went  up  stairs  to  attire  himself  for 
his  sally  forth  against  the  windmills.  Lucy  heard  him 

[981 


THE    MOTH 


rushing  around  and  came  to  the  door  of  her  room  just 
as  he  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs  on  his  way  out. 

"Feeling  better,  darling?"  she  queried,  with  a  mischiev- 
ous smile  which  made  her  words  particularly  offensive. 

"I  can  take  care  of  myself,  since  I  have  to,"  he  replied 
in  an  injured  tone,  continuing  down  the  stairs. 

"All  right,"  she  called  out  after  the  retreating  figure. 
"But,  Vallie  dear,  if  you  feel  another  of  those  attacks 
coming  on,  get  somewhere  out  of  sight,  for  you're  not 
a  sweet  thing  to  look  at."  But  the  slamming  door 
was  the  only  evidence  Lucy  had  that  her  words  reached 
him. 

He  found  Eustis  and  Clapp  sitting  on  the  broad  piazza 
of  The  Yacht  Club,  half-reclining  in  great  easy-chairs 
and  lazily  watching  the  kaleidoscopic  activity  among 
the  great  fleet  of  pleasure  boats,  big  and  little,  as  they 
came  to  their  moorings  and  dropped  sail,  or  cleared  away 
in  the  twilight. 

"Hullo,  Vallie,"  Eustis  greeted  him;  "we  weren't 
looking  for  you  tonight  and  thought  we'd  have  to  scurry 
around  to  get  a  fourth  man." 

"Why  didn't  you  expect  me?"  he  demanded,  drawing 
up  a  chair. 

Eustis  looked  at  Clapp  and  both  men  laughed.  "You 
came  near  getting  drowned  last  night,"  Eustis  replied. 
"I  didn't  suppose  you  could  take  so  much  on  board  and 
revive  under  forty-eight  hours." 

"Perhaps  the  Captain  had  a  restorative  in  his  jeans," 
Clapp  suggested. 

"Cut  it  out,"  Spencer  said  shortly.  "I'm  sick  of  all 
this  jollying.  Do  you  fellows  mind  dining  early?" 

His  companions  again  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled 
significantly. 

[99] 


THE    MOTH 


"We  must  wait  for  Miller,"  Eustis  said,  glancing  at 
his  watch.  "He'll  be  down  on  the  5.15  train.  Can  you 
hold  out  for  an  hour?" 

"I  suppose  I  can,  if  I  have  to." 

"Have  a  highball  while  you're  waiting,"  Clapp  added. 

Spencer  made  a  wry  face.  "Not  for  a  thousand  dollars. 
I  haven't  eaten  a  thing  since  last  night.  I'm  in  a  beastly 
humor." 

"We  noticed  that,"  Eustis  admitted.  "Did  your 
beautiful  lady  make  rings  around  you  when  you  came  to?" 

"No;    I  didn't  see  her  until  this  afternoon." 

"Then  the  Captain  must  have  made  you  get  up  to  see 
him  off." 

"Wrong  again,"  Vallie  replied  wearily.  "Lucy  took 
him  to  town  in  the  motor." 

"Hum!"  Eustis  raised  his  eyebrows.  "That  must 
have  reconciled  the  Captain  to  a  fairly  tedious  week-end." 

Spencer's  weariness  vanished.  "I  don't  get  you,"  he 
said.  "Why  don't  you  think  Auchester  enjoyed  himself?  " 

Eustis  laughed  as  he  lit  a  fresh  cigarette.  "Don't  be 
a  chump,  Vallie,"  he  replied.  "You  don't  think  Auchester 
tags  you  around  like  this  because  he  likes  the  color  of 
your  eyes,  do  you?" 

The  conclusions  which  Spencer  had  drawn  during  the 
morning  regarding  Auchester's  ingratitude  came  back  to 
him  with  redoubled  force.  So  others  had  noticed  it! 
This  was  a  source  of  satisfaction,  for  it  confirmed  the  logic 
of  his  own  thoughts,  and  Eustis  was  admitted  to  be  a 
clever  man. 

"No,"  he  replied  with  decision.  "Auchester  hasn't 
put  anything  over  on  me.  He's  got  all  he  can  out  of  me, 
and  now  he  thinks  his  own  legs  will  carry  him." 

"You  mean  at  the  clubs?"  Eustis  asked. 
[100] 


THE    MOTH 


"Yes.  I  introduced  him  all  around,  and  now  he's 
ready  to  shake  me." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  that  of  the  Captain,"  Clapp  pro- 
tested. "What  has  he  done  to  make  you  think  so?" 

"He  hasn't  done  anything,  but  Eustis  agrees  with  me, 
so  that  proves  it." 

"But  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  Eustis  remarked  calmly. 
"Auchester  is  a  devilish  fine  fellow,  and  he'd  make  his 
way  anywhere,  introductions  or  not,  on  his  own  shape. 
I  don't  mean  that  at  all;  but  if  I'm  any  judge  he  was 
bored  stiff  and  was  tugging  at  the  leash  all  the  time  he 
was  over  here  to  get  with  some  one  who  could  talk  his 
language,  —  and  at  the  end  of  his  visit  you  gave  him  his 
chance,  for  which  he  should  be  duly  grateful,  as  I  have  no 
doubt  he  is." 

"Then  you  think  he  cultivates  me  on  Lucy's  account?'* 

"Why  not?  A  wife  like  that  is  the  surest  guarantee  of 
any  man's  popularity." 

"That's  why  we  all  love  you,  Vallie,"  added  Clapp. 
"Even  I  would  accept  an  invitation  for  a  week-end;  but 
I  should  make  certain  stipulations  in  advance  which  the 
Captain  evidently  overlooked." 

"Do  you  suggest  — " 

"Nothing,  my  dear  boy,"  Clapp  interposed,  "nothing 
in  the  world  except  that  Lucy  is  all  to  the  merry,  and 
entirely  competent  to  take  care  of  herself.  It  does  you 
great  credit  that  with  all  the  attention  she  gets  from  the 
rest  of  us  she  still  stands  for  you.  Take  it  from  me,  it's 
most  complimentary  to  the  attractiveness  which  you  must 
display  in  your  own  home.  There's  Miller;  now  you 
can  fill  up  that  aching  void." 

Vallie  remembered,  as  he  saw  Miller,  that  he  had  as 
yet  made  no  reference  to  the  one  cause  of  resentment 

[1011 


THE    MOTH 


which  he  entertained  against  these  particular  friends. 
Eustis  and  Clapp,  he  now  recalled,  had  not  been  to  the 
city  since  the  evening  when  the  bridge  had  been  all  his 
party,  so  Miller  must  have  been  the  one  to  deposit  the 
checks  which  had  caused  the  overdraft.  He  was  some- 
what distant,  therefore,  in  greeting  the  late  arrival,  so 
much  so,  in  fact,  that  his  attitude  was  noticed  by  all. 

"What's  wrong,  old  chap?"  Miller  demanded. 

"You  were  in  a  devilish  hurry  to  deposit  those  checks 
of  mine,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"Hurry  to  do  what?"    Miller  failed  to  understand. 

"I  gave  you  fellows  some  good  fat  checks  Friday  night, 
and  now  the  bank  notifies  me  that  my  account  is  over- 
drawn. I  don't  suppose  you  cared  to  take  a  chance  on 
them?" 

The  three  men  glanced  at  each  other  significantly,  while 
Eustis  passed  his  hand  over  Spencer's  forehead. 

"I  told  you  that  you  were  nearly  drowned  last  night, 
Vallie,"  he  insisted.  "Better  wear  overshoes  tonight." 

"I've  asked  you  a  civil  question  and  I'm  entitled  to  an 
answer,"  Vallie  replied  with  great  dignity. 

"Did  the  bank  send  you  down  the  checks?"  Miller 
asked. 

"No;    of  course  not.     The  notice  was  enough." 

Miller  drew  out  his  pocket-book  and  Eustis  and  Clapp 
did  the  same.  Each  held  up  a  small  piece  of  paper. 

"Here  are  the  'checks,'"  Clapp  remarked.  "I  never 
tried  to  cash  an  I.  O.  U.  at  the  bank,  but  perhaps  it 
would  go  through  all  right." 

Spencer  regarded  the  three  slips  of  paper  dubiously. 
"Then  I  didn't  give  you  fellows  checks?"  he  asked. 

"Not  so  that  you'd  notice  it,"  Eustis  rejoined.  "Looks 
to  me  as  if  the  orders  were  on  you,  —  mine's  a  lone  tree." 

[102J 


THE    MOTH 


"Then  how  the  devil  is  the  account  overdrawn?"  he 
puzzled.  "I  must  have  drawn  some  other  checks." 

"There  you  have  it!"  exclaimed  Miller.  "There  goes 
that  Websterian  brain  working  overtime!  Vallie,  you're 
a  wonder!" 

The  dinner  passed  off  without  incident.  Spencer's 
spirits  revived  as  it  progressed,  and  he  congratulated 
himself  that  he  had  said  nothing  nasty  regarding  the  checks 
before  the  real  facts  had  been  disclosed.  The  dining-room, 
looking  out  onto  the  commodious  piazza,  was  gay  with 
the  sprinkling  of  yachting  suits  worn  by  the  men  and  the 
radiant  summer  costumes  displayed  by  the  women,  who 
came  with  their  escorts  from  the  many  cottages  surround- 
ing the  harbor.  Outside,  the  whistles  of  the  steam  yachts 
and  the  creaking  of  the  sails  from  those  smaller  boats 
which  found  anchorage  near  the  club  landing  suggested 
the  occupation  of  the  evening,  and  through  the  long  open 
windows  an  occasional  whiff  of  the  east  breeze  brought 
the  bracing  salt  air  which  served  to  flavor  the  food  and 
to  give  invigoration  to  the  conversation. 

Later,  the  little  tender  took  the  men  on  board  the 
"Sylph,"  where  the  card-table  was  already  set  up  on  the 
after-deck,  and  few  preparations  were  necessary  to  begin 
the  evening's  play.  Vallie's  luck  had  consistently  run 
against  him  for  some  time,  and  tonight  he  determined 
to  make  a  killing. 

"Let's  double  the  stakes,"  he  suggested  as  they  sat  down. 

"Not  for  me,"  Miller  protested;  "ten  a  point  is  my 
limit." 

"Give  me  a  chance  to  get  back  those  I.  O.  U's,"  Vallie 
pleaded. 

"But  one  of  us  has  to  cut  you  for  a  partner,"  Clapp 
explained. 

1103J 


Even  Spencer  could  see  the  strength  of  this  reasoning, 
so  the  cards  were  cut,  and  Miller  drew  to  play  with  him. 
"I'll  take  an  extra  with  you,  Eustis,"  Vallie  continued, 
seeing  another  chance  to  recoup. 

"All  right,"  assented  the  willing  Eustis.  "If  your 
account  is  overdrawn  I  might  as  well  let  you  win  back 
this  I.  O.  U.  as  have  it  go  to  seed.  Your  deal,  Vallie." 

"No  trump,"  Spencer  bid,  as  soon  as  the  hands  were 
sorted. 

"Two  clubs,"  came  from  Eustis. 

"Content,"  from  Miller. 

"Content,"  Clapp  echoed. 

"Two  no  trumps,"  Spencer  raised  his  bid  after  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

"Double,"  Eustis  exclaimed  promptly. 

Vallie  looked  up  sharply  into  an  aggravatingly  smiling 
face. 

"Want  to  take  it  back?"  Eustis  asked  tauntingly. 
"We'll  let  you,  —  it's  like  taking  candy  from  children." 

"Go  ahead  and  lead,"  Spencer  retorted  ill-humoredly, 
when  the  bidding  ceased. 

"No;  I  don't  think  I  will."  Eustis  laid  his  hand 
down  on  the  table.  "Let's  have  a  new  deal." 

"What  is  this, — bumblepuppy?"  Miller  inquired. 

"I  have  a  good  reason,"  insisted  Eustis. 

"Go  ahead  and  play,"  Vallie  urged.  "I  know  what 
I'm  doing." 

"All  right,"  was  the  yielding  answer.  "But  if  we  win, 
the  score  on  this  hand  doesn't  count." 

"Where  do  I  come  in?"  Clapp  remarked  significantly. 
"Aren't  you  making  rather  free  with  my  money?" 

"You  wouldn't  mind  contributing  something  toward 
teaching  Vallie  how  to  play  auction,  would  you?"  Eustis 

[104] 


THE    MOTH 


responded  confidently,  leading  a  heart,  which  developed 
a  fatal  weakness  on  the  part  of  his  opponents  in  that 
particular  suit. 

"Of  all  the  rotten  luck!"  Spencer  cried  disgustedly  as 
the  last  card  fell  and  he  found  himself  set  two  tricks. 
"That  was  fool  luck,  Eustis,  and  you  must  admit  it.  I 
had  your  clubs  stopped,  and  there  was  no  reason  in  the 
world  to  think  you  would  lead  hearts." 

"It  wasn't  all  luck,"  Eustis  protested  quietly,  as  he 
nonchalantly  shuffled  the  cards  and  waited. 

"Doesn't  the  score  stand?"  inquired  Clapp. 

"I'll  bet  you  fifty  dollars  you  can't  give  any  sane 
reason  for  that  lead,"  Spencer  interrupted,  unconvinced. 

"Make  it  a  hundred  and  I'll  go  you." 

"All  right,"  Vallie  exclaimed,  reaching  for  his 
pocket-book. 

"Your  pocket-book  won't  help  you  any,"  Eustis  still 
taunted  him.  "Get  out  your  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper. 
Are  you  sure  your  I.  O.  U.  is  any  good?" 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  Spencer  exclaimed  hotly. 

"No,"  was  the  laughing  answer;  "go  ahead.  Who  is 
to  settle  the  bet?" 

"I'll  leave  it  to  Miller  and  Clapp." 

"Ah1  right.  I  doubled  and  led  hearts  because  you 
exposed  your  hand  when  you  lit  your  cigarette,  —  I 
couldn't  help  seeing  it.  How'll  that  do  for  a  sane 
reason?" 

"Damn!"  Spencer  muttered,  as  the  shouts  of  the  two 
other  men  announced  their  award. 

"Now  you  savvy  why  the  score  doesn't  stand,  and  all 
bets  are  off,  too.  But  I  say,  Vallie,  for  Heaven's  sake  get 
some  one  to  teach  you  the  game.  No  wonder  you  lose 
all  the  time." 

1105] 


THE    MOTH 


Spencer  made  no  reply,  but  sullenly  sorted  the  hand 
Eustis  dealt  him,  and  the  game  continued  with  results 
which  varied  for  three  of  the  players,  but  his  ill-luck 
followed  him  steadily.  When  the  scores  were  finally 
added,  he  was  the  only  loser. 

"It's  all  your  party  again,  Vallie,"  Miller  announced, 
"and  Eustis  is  high  man." 

"I  seem  to  be  paying  the  expenses  of  the  yacht,"  was 
the  discouraged  answer.  "I  haven't  won  a  rubber  that 
was  worth  anything  since  we  started  in  Friday  night." 

"Take  a  few  less'ons  and  see  if  that  won't  help  some." 
Eustis  again  volunteered  advice,  but  Spencer  was  in  no 
mood  to  receive  it. 

"I  wouldn't  need  them  if  I  had  your  hands,"  he  re- 
torted. "The  winner  isn't  necessarily  the  best  player  by 
any  means." 

"Take  that  home  and  play  it  over  on  your  piano," 
laughed  Clapp. 

"Don't  knock,  —  come  right  in,"  Eustis  replied  good- 
naturedly. 

"Auction  is  a  rotten  game,"  Spencer  said,  rising  from 
his  seat.  "I  don't  see  why  any  one  ever  plays  it." 


[106] 


XII 


MARGARET  had  seen  Lucy  a  number  of  times 
during  the  summer,  and  the  result  of  their  pact 
had  been  to  draw  them  much  closer  together; 
still  Margaret  felt  that  little  progress  had  actually  been 
made  in  bringing  her  to  a  point  where  her  impulses  were 
really  under  control.  The  earlier  prejudice  the  older 
woman  had  formed  disappeared  with  closer  acquaintance. 
Lucy  annoyed  her  frequently  by  word  or  deed  which 
seemed  foolish  or  ill-advised,  at  times  she  exasperated  her 
with  some  unexpected  folly  completely  at  variance  with 
well-meant  resolutions;  but  in  spite  of  all,  Margaret  could 
not  help  loving  her,  and  had  really  come  to  regard  her, 
as  Cunningham  did,  in  the  light  of  a  high-strung,  head- 
strong child.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  Lucy  seemed  able  to 
walk  the  narrow  edge  of  the  danger  line  with  such  abso- 
lute confidence  and  security  that  Margaret's  admonitions 
lost  much  of  the  force  they  would  have  possessed  had  she 
been  able  to  point  her  finger  at  a  single  disastrous  slip. 
Lucy's  claim,  that  what  Margaret  and  Ned  called  "in- 
discretions" were  of  such  a  nature  that  they  could  harm 
no  one  except  herself,  appeared  to  be  substantiated  by  the 
facts,  and  as  her  episode  with  Cunningham,  which  she 
considered  the  nearest  she  had  ever  come  to  a  real  mis- 
take, had  actually  resulted  in  a  friendship  which  she  would 

[107] 


THE    MOTH 


not  otherwise  have  had,  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  draw 
real  lessons  from  her  experiences. 

Cunningham  had  derived  the  inspiration  of  his  sugges- 
tion to  Lucy,  that  her  children  must  form  the  solution  of 
her  problem,  from  the  conversation  over  the  Sunday  night 
supper  when  Langdon  and  Hayden  were  at  his  house.  He 
had  not  thought  to  make  the  specific  application  until 
Lucy's  unexpected  luncheon  with  him  had  forced  him  to 
crystallize  into  actual  words  the  subconscious  impres- 
sion this  conversation  had  left  upon  his  mind.  When  he 
returned  home  that  evening  he  recounted  to  Margaret 
the  day's  adventure,  and  urged  upon  her  to  follow  up 
the  seed  which  he  knew,  from  Lucy's  attitude  as  they 
separated,  had  been  planted  in  fertile  ground.  This  ex- 
plained the  particular  occasion  of  Margaret's  visit  to 
Beverly  Farms  a  few  days  after  Lucy's  first  attempt  to 
take  the  children  into  her  life. 

The  rebuff  the  children  had  given  their  mother  had 
resulted  only  ;n  temporary  mortification  and  an  injured 
pride.  The  main  point  which  stood  out  above  all  others 
was  that  Ned,  the  famous  legal  authority,  Ned  the  in- 
fallible, Ned  the  dear,  well-meaning  friend,  had  shown 
himself  to  be  mortal  like  the  rest.  He  could  guide  a  client 
through  the  intricate  mazes  of  the  law's  confusion,  he 
could  sway  the  masses  with  his  eloquence  in  furthering 
some  civic  cause,  he  could  command  the  mighty  to 
stand  still  and  listen  to  his  words,  but  when  it  came 
to  the  solution  of  a  wretched  little  woman's  perplex- 
ities he  was  just  an  ordinary  man,  whose  judgment 
in  all  to  do  with  women  is  always  wrong!  Not  that  she 
blamed  him;  on  the  contrary  she  felt  drawn  even  closer 
by  this  evidence  that  he  had  not  acquired  the  preroga- 
tives of  the  superman. 

[108] 


THE     MOTH 


Lucy  had  not  given  up  the  experiment  after  the  first 
trial,  but  its  continuance  was  not  due  to  the  same  motive 
which  had  prompted  its  beginning.  That  incident  she 
considered  closed,  but  she  was  determined  that  Susette 
should  not  be  left  in  the  undisputed  position  of  being  the 
only  one  to  whom  the  children  turned.  Unfortunately, 
her  efforts  had  been  along  the  line  of  least  resistance,  and 
already  results  were  apparent  which  bade  fair  to  undo  the 
training  which  the  careful  governess  had  effected.  Larry 
no  longer  hung  back  when  his  mother  called  him,  Babs 
felt  no  desire  to  weep  in  Susette' s  arms;  both  came 
eagerly  to  her  with  outstretched  hands  and  expectant 
hearts  for  the  presents  and  indulgences  with  which  she 
now  surfeited  them.  Lucy  discovered  that  they  were 
"little  angels"  so  long  as  their  childish  whims  were  not 
obstructed,  and  she  made  it  a  point  to  leave  all  the 
obstructing  to  Susette. 

It  had  proved  an  agreeable  diversion,  and  Lucy  was 
quite  ready  to  discuss  the  subject  with  Margaret  when 
it  was  adroitly  introduced  into  the  conversation. 

"Don't  tell  Ned,"  Lucy  insisted,  "for  I'm  saving  it 
to  tell  him  myself,  but  it  is  really  the  greatest  joke  in 
the  world  on  him.  He  hasn't  much  faith  in  poor  little 
me,  so  he  was  trying  to  think  out  some  'salvation,'  as  he 
called  it,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  the  children 
would  be  just  the  thing.  Then  he  talked  and  talked  to  me 
about  it  while  we  were  having  luncheon  together  —  I  do 
wish  you  might  have  been  there  too,  Margaret, — and  you 
know  the  way  it  is  when  Ned  gets  interested!  If  you  will 
believe  me,  he  almost  had  me  crying,  and  I  couldn't  wait 
to  get  back  here  to  do  just  what  he  said.  But — " 

Lucy  laughed  at  the  recollection. 

"But  what,  Lucy?"  Margaret  urged. 
[109J 


THE    MOTH 


"Well,  Ned  hadn't  talked  to  the  children  as  he  had  to 
me,  so  they  didn't  fully  appreciate  the  'salvation'  busi- 
ness. Larry  balked  and  Babs  howled,  and  altogether  we 
had  a  very  messy  time.  At  first  I  was  provoked  enough, 
but  when  I  came  to  think  it  over  I  realized  how  absurd 
the  whole  thing  was.  How  could  Ned,  of  all  people,  dear 
boy  that  he  is,  possibly  know  anything  about  children 
when  he  never  has  had  any  of  his  own?  It's  the  old  maid 
in  the  'mothers'  meetings,'  you  know,  who  always  has 
the  latest  theories  as  to  raising  children.  Don't  think 
I'm  making  light  of  what  Ned  said,  Margaret,  for  I  do 
appreciate  his  interest,  but  it's  so  seldom  any  one  of  us 
gets  a  joke  on  him,  he's  usually  such  a  very  wise  person." 

"But  I  don't  agree  with  you  that  the  'joke'  is  on  Ned," 
Margaret  replied  seriously;  "and  what  is  more,  I  don't 
think  there  is  any  joke  about  it  at  all." 

"You  don't!"  Lucy  exclaimed  with  genuine  surprise; 
"you  still  think,  after  all  I've  told  you,  that  I  can  get  any 
kind  of  life  by  associating  just  with  Larry  and  Babs? 
Why,  Margaret  dear,  remember,  —  they're  only  little 
children. " 

"I  know,"  Margaret  replied  quietly,  frankly  disap- 
pointed, taking  Lucy's  hand  in  both  of  hers,  "and  you 
are  only  a  child  yourself.  Have  you  never,  during 
these  years  of  motherhood,  felt  that  there  could  be  no 
companionship  equal  to  that  given  by  these  little  crea- 
tures, —  companionship  in  their  early  helplessness,  in 
their  later  development  day  by  day  into  distinct  person- 
alities, in  combating  the  growth  of  our  own  faults,  which 
we  see  duplicated  in  their  tiny  compositions,  in  encour- 
aging those  better  traits  which  we  also  recognize  belong  to 
them  by  right  of  inheritance.  Have  you  never  felt  this, 
dear,  during  the  years  since  Larry  was  born?" 

[1101 


THE    MOTH 


"Not  just  that,"  Lucy  admitted  thoughtfully.  "Of 
course  I  have  been  terribly  worried  about  them  when  they 
have  been  ill,  and  I  have  always  insisted  on  being  with  them 
at  such  times;  but  they  are  quiet  then,  and  I  can  love  them 
and  take  care  of  them.  When  they  are  well  they  don't 
really  need  me,  and  I  can't  endure  them  when  they  fuss." 

"They  need  you  even  more  when  they  are  well," 
Margaret  insisted  with  a  patient  smile.  "In  their  ill- 
nesses they  have  the  best  of  professional  care,  and  your 
presence  is  due,  as  you  say,  more  to  your  anxiety  than  to 
their  requirements.  Can't  you  see  that  while  their  little 
bodies  may  be  perfectly  well,  their  minds  may  need  a 
mother's  care  just  as  desperately?  Character  is  forming 
every  day  in  those  tiny  brains,  and  who  is  shaping  it? 
Susette?  Very  well,  —  are  you  satisfied  to  have  the  char- 
acter building  restricted  to  the  limitations  of  a  governess, 
no  matter  how  good  a  one  she  may  be?" 

"You  and  Ned  are  both  inconsistent,"  Lucy  replied 
uncomfortably.  "You  think  I  am  lacking  in  character, 
yet  you  urge  me  to  expose  my  children  to  that  very  in- 
fluence which  you  are  trying  to  correct." 

"Didn't  Ned  tell  you  that  in  his  advice  he  had  you  in 
mind  more  than  the  children?" 

"Yes;  but  that  means  to  sacrifice  them  for  my  good." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear.  Neither  Ned  nor  I  think  that  you 
lack  character,  but  we  do  think  that  you  sometimes  fail 
to  express  it  in  the  wisest  way.  What  he  meant,  and  I 
agree  with  him,  is  that  you  couldn't  give  of  yourself  to 
those  darling  children  without  expressing  that  which  at 
the  present  time  nothing  calls  forth." 

"You  are  just  as  bad  as  Ned."  Lucy  forced  a  laugh  to 
relieve  the  tension.  "  How  can  you  know  so  much  about 
these  things  without  being  a  mother  yourself?" 

[Ill] 


THE    MOTH 


Margaret  winced,  and  Lucy  sprang  forward  as  she 
saw  the  pain  in  her  face.  "Forgive  me,  dear,"  she  said 
softly.  "I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  during  which  Margaret 
forced  back  the  tears  which  came  to  her  eyes.  "You 
didn't  know,"  she  replied,  "but  we  had  a  baby  once,  and 
perhaps  the  only  reason  Ned  and  I  have  never  spoken  of 
it  is  because  its  loss  was  so  great  a  sorrow  to  us  both.  We 
do  know  what  it  means,  Lucy,  and  when  we  see  the 
opportunity  so  close  at  hand  for  you  to  find  the  happi- 
ness which  is  denied  to  us,  do  you  wonder  that  we  urge 
it  on  you?" 

"I  didn't  know,  —  forgive  me,  dear,"  Lucy  said, 
sobered  by  what  Margaret  had  just  told  her.  "There 
must  be  something  lacking  in  me,"  she  continued  at 
length,  speaking  more  to  herself  than  to  her  companion. 
"I  love  them  and  I'm  proud  of  them,  but  I  have  never 
in  all  my  life  had  any  desire  to  be  with  them  when  they 
were  not  in  good  humor.  It's  another  evidence  of  selfish- 
ness, I'm  afraid;  but  I  don't  know  how  to  act  toward 
them  in  any  different  way." 

For  a  long  moment  Margaret  sat  looking  at  her,  dis- 
couraged by  her  inability  to  touch  the  spring  which  should 
bring  the  latent  mother-love  to  the  surface,  —  for  she  knew 
it  must  be  there.  She  believed  that  Lucy  honestly  yearned 
to  discover  it  in  herself,  not  even  yet  realizing  the  price- 
less value  of  the  treasure  she  sought.  Margaret's  heart 
bled  for  her,  and  she  felt  the  pity  of  it  all  far  more  than 
Lucy  herself.  She  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  tenderly 
upon  the  forehead. 

"Some  day,"  she  told  her,  "some  day  you  will  look 
back  and  wonder  that  it  was  ever  possible  for  you  to  say 
that.  Some  day  you  will  hear  within  you  a  voice  from 

[112] 


THE    MOTH 


Heaven  which  will  make  it  clear.     Until  then  all  your 
friends  can  do  is  to  hope." 

"I  know  it,"  she  answered  frankly;  yet  by  the  tone  of 
her  voice  Margaret  knew  that  she  utterly  failed  to  com- 
prehend. "And  the  fact  that  the  friends  do  hope  helps 
me  to  believe  that  it  will  be  as  you  say.  But  the  friends 
must  be  patient,  Peggy  dear.  After  twenty-eight  years 
of  doing  exactly  what  I've  wished,  you  and  Ned  can't 
expect  to  reform  me  right  away,  can  you?  Why  —  you've 
only  been  working  on  me  for  six  weeks!" 


[1131 


XIII 


THE  Montgomery  case  was  but  one  of  several 
unusually  important  matters  which  had  caused 
Cunningham  to  decide  that  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  remain  close  to  his  office  until  after  the  first  of 
September.  Margaret  preferred  the  more  simple  social 
life  of  the  South  Shore  to  the  more  elaborate  forms  of 
summer  entertainment  prevalent  among  the  fashionable 
colonies  extending  from  Beverly  to  Gloucester,  and  this 
was  the  first  year  they  had  not  closed  their  town  house 
and  occupied  their  "cottage"  at  Marion.  Cunningham 
had  urged  her  not  to  allow  his  necessities  to  occasion 
any  change  in  her  usual  plans,  but  Margaret,  with  a 
devotion  so  characteristic  that  her  husband  accepted  it  as 
a  matter  of  course,  refused  to  consider  any  summer  plans 
which  did  not  include  him.  He  promised  her  the  week- 
ends, but  felt  that  the  daily  trip  back  and  forth  on  the 
train  would  take  from  him  more  time  and  strength  than 
at  present  he  could  afford  to  give. 

Yet  the  experiment  had  not  required  so  much  of  a 
sacrifice  in  comfort  as  Margaret  had  expected.  Much  to 
her  surprise  the  city,  which  she  as  well  as  others  deserted 
year  after  year  as  a  matter  of  course,  was  not  without  its 
attractions  as  a  summer  resort.  The  days  were  hot,  but 
by  evening  it  was  the  exception  when  the  east  breeze  did 

[114] 


THE    MOTH 


not  relieve  all  torrid  suggestion;  and  what  watering-place 
can  guarantee  more !  The  motor  made  it  possible  for  them 
to  enjoy  new  experiences  together,  for  they  rarely  dined 
twice  at  the  same  place;  and  their  week-end  excursions 
acquainted  them  with  other  delightful  spots  which  until 
now  they  had  known  only  by  name.  Freedom  from  social 
requirements  gave  her  a  thoroughly  enjoyed  opportunity 
for  quiet  reading  far  beyond  any  she  had  ever  found,  and 
best  of  all,  Cunningham  had  promised  that  the  month  of 
September  should  be  all  hers  to  plan  out  as  she  thought 
best,  with  his  business  responsibilities  thrown  one  side. 
It  had  been  long  since  she  had  enjoyed  with  him  so  ex- 
tended a  holiday,  and  the  anticipation  of  this  made  the 
summer  plans  even  more  attractive  than  ever. 

To  Langdon  the  summer  meant  the  Montgomery  case 
and  nothing  else.  He  realized  fully  that  this  was  his 
opportunity,  and  his  office  associates  relieved  him  of 
less  important  matters  so  that  he  might  work  uninter- 
ruptedly upon  this.  And  the  results  of  his  investigations 
gave  him  great  encouragement.  As  the  case  presented 
itself  to  him,  his  client  must  be  guilty  unless  a  third  party 
could  be  introduced  into  the  tragedy,  so  he  began  his  work 
with  the  fictitious  hypothesis  that  this  third  party  really 
existed.  With  this  as  a  basis  he  carefully  went  over  the 
ground  from  the  point  where  the  witness  testified  to  the 
shots  hi  the  buggy  and  the  spot  where  the  horse  was  finally 
stopped  by  the  interlocking  wheels.  This  represented  a 
distance  of  over  a  mile,  and  Langdon  hit  upon  a  theory 
that  the  vehicle  might  have  held  three  persons  at  the  time 
the  shots  were  fired,  and  that  the  real  assassin  would  have 
had  ample  opportunity  to  leave  the  buggy  at  some  point 
before  the  bridge  was  reached,  starting  the  horse  again 
upon  its  way  after  making  good  his  escape. 

[115J 


THE    MOTH 


With  this  in  mind  Langdon  sharply  cross-examined 
Montgomery,  and  to  his  surprise  and  gratification  the 
man,  with  seeming  reluctance,  finally  admitted  that  the 
hypothesis  was  correct.  There  was  a  third  person  in 
the  buggy,  he  said,  at  the  time  the  shots  were  fired,  but 
he  had  made  no  reference  to  it  as  it  really  did  not  bear 
upon  the  case.  The  third  person,  Montgomery  insisted, 
was  hi  no  way  involved,  as  it  was  Brewster  who  fired  the 
shots.  Nothing  could  move  him  from  his  position,  so 
Langdon  was  forced  to  accept  the  situation,  bringing  to 
bear  all  his  force  of  argument  to  convince  his  client  of 
the  value  which  the  testimony  of  this  third  person  would 
be  in  establishing  his  own  innocence.  But  Montgomery 
was  surly: 

"I  don't  want  to  bring  her  into  it,"  he  said  shortly. 

"Then  it  was  a  woman!"  Langdon  exclaimed,  de- 
lighted by  the  unexpected  information. 

"What  if  it  was?"  the  man  retorted,  angry  with  himself 
for  having  let  the  words  slip. 

This  was  the  extent  of  the  information  Langdon  was 
able  to  drag  from  him,  in  spite  of  several  interviews. 
Montgomery  at  last  refused  even  to  reply  to  his  interro- 
gations, evidently  not  trusting  himself  since  his  unfortu- 
nate admission.  But  his  champion  determined  to  save 
him  in  spite  of  himself,  and  proud  to  have  uncovered 
something  which  the  office  of  the  Attorney-General  had 
failed  to  find,  devoted  his  entire  time  and  energy  to  the 
discovery  of  the  mysterious  woman,  who,  he  felt  certain, 
held  in  her  possession  the  solution  to  the  crime. 

The  three  motives  for  which  the  police  search  in  the 
unraveling  of  any  mystery  are  woman,  money,  and  re- 
venge. Thus  far  in  the  Montgomery  case  all  three  were 
lacking,  but  Langdon's  discovery  that  a  woman  was  in 

[116J 


THE    MOTH 


the  buggy  with  these  men  offered  the  possibility  of  finding 
at  least  two  of  the  motives  actually  in  existence.  Whether 
or  not  success  in  locating  the  woman  would  result  in 
clearing  his  client  or  in  making  his  plight  more  desperate, 
Langdon  could  not  foresee;  in  the  latter  event,  being  fore- 
warned would  enable  him  to  defend  Montgomery  with 
greater  effect,  even  though  the  evidence  against  him  was 
actually  strengthened.  • 

Langdon  still  found  it  difficult  to  accept  Cunningham's 
high  moral  attitude  as  necessarily  the  proper  basis  for 
his  own  practice  of  law.  He  admitted  it  theoretically 
and  respected  Cunningham  more  than  ever  as  he  came 
into  actual  knowledge  of  the  consistency  with  which  he 
lived  up  to  his  ideals.  Of  course  it  was  all  right  for  him 
to  do  it,  for  he  had  attained  a  position  where  such  a  repu- 
tation formed  a  real  business  asset.  Clients  knew  that  to 
have  Cunningham  accept  retainers  and  plead  their  cases 
was  an  assurance  to  the  Court  and  to  the  jury  that  he, 
at  least,  had  already  sat  as  master  and  had  decided  in  their 
favor.  Cunningham  could  pick  and  choose  his  cases,  and 
the  moral  effect  of  his  appearance  for  his  client  was  such 
as  to  warrant  the  size  of  the  fees  which  he  charged  for 
his  professional  services.  Langdon  was  sufficiently  familiar 
with  these  facts  to  be  aware  that  idealism,  in  this  case  at 
least,  could  be  made  eminently  practical,  and  he  wondered 
to  himself  if  Cunningham  was  not  also  aware  of  it.  Not 
that  he  doubted  his  sincerity:  no  man  could  know  Cun- 
ningham and  doubt  that;  but  had  he  not  argued  so  long 
for  other  people  that  unconsciously  he  had  persuaded 
himself?  Such  things  had  happened,  and  history  is  never 
averse  to  repeating  itself. 

In  the  present  instance,  with  its  later  developments, 
Langdon  felt  it  to  be  a  decided  advantage  to  himself  to 

[117] 


THE    MOTH 


have  Cunningham  opposed  to  him  in  the  Montgomery 
case.  From  the  conversation  they  had  already  had,  it 
was  evident  that  his  single  purpose  was  to  secure  justice, 
and  it  was  certain  that  he  would  aid  the  defense  if  Langdon 
could  introduce  evidence  sufficient  to  show  even  reason- 
able doubt  as  to  the  prisoner's  guilt.  This  Landgon  be- 
lieved he  was  now  able  to  do,  especially  as  he  felt 
confident  that  he  would  succeed  hi  locating  the  unknown 
woman. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  personal  elation,  together  with  a 
desire  to  have  Cunningham  realize  that  he  had  accom- 
plished something,  that  he  asked  his  friend  for  an  appoint- 
ment to  discuss  the  situation  in  its  newest  aspect.  The 
request  came  opportunely,  as  the  older  man  had  been  on  the 
point  of  sending  for  Langdon  for  the  same  purpose,  but  had 
been  prevented  by  other  unexpected  claims  upon  his  time. 
Now  other  appointments  shaped  themselves  around  this 
one  definitely  made,  and  Cunningham  gave  his  caller  a 
cordial  welcome. 

"Well,  Tom,"  he  said  lightly,  "the  State  has  been  view- 
ing your  activity  in  this  case  with  apprehension,  and 
begins  to  fear  that  you  will  rob  its  insatiate  thirst  for 
blood  of  a  most  promising  victim.  You  wouldn't  do  that, 
would  you?" 

Langdon  laughed.  "Not  without  supplying  it  with 
another,"  he  said.  "The  State  isn't  going  to  be  fussy 
about  that,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  no!"  Cunningham  assented.  "So  long  as  there 
is  no  danger  of  having  to  give  up  our  little  party  we  shall 
find  no  fault.  How  much  do  you  want  to  tell  me  of  the 
situation  as  it  stands  today?" 

"Everything,"  was  the  frank  response.  "Until  our 
talk  at  your  house  I  should  have  held  back  what  I  knew 

11181 


THE    MOTH 


until  the  trial,  and  then  have  thrown  it  into  the  pros- 
ecution to  weaken  their  case;  but  from  what  you  said 
then  I  have  concluded  that  our  interests  are  really 
identical." 

"I  believe  they  are,"  Cunningham  said  seriously. 

"What  the  State  wishes,  as  I  understand  it,"  Langdon 
continued,  "is  the  conviction  of  the  person  or  persons 
who  killed  Brewster,  —  not  necessarily  the  conviction 
of  Montgomery?" 

"Exactly." 

"Then  I  believe  that  I  can  show  that  it  was  not  neces- 
sarily Montgomery,  but  possibly  a  third  person,  as  yet 
unknown,  who  fired  those  shots." 

Cunningham  manifested  unmistakable  interest.  "That 
is  a  big  step  forward  in  the  defense,"  he  said. 

"I  know  it  is,"  Langdon  replied,  "and  I  knew  you 
would  be  pleased.  You  said,  you  remember,  that  if  I 
was  able  to  show  you  that  Brewster  could  have  been  shot 
by  any  one  other  than  my  client  you  would  help  clear 
Montgomery. " 

"Did  I  say  just  that?"  Cunningham  questioned.  "I 
thought  I  said  that  in  the  event  you  speak  of  the  prose- 
cution would  assist  the  defense." 

"Well,  that's  the  same  thing,  isn't  it?" 

"Not  quite.  Granting  that  you  can  show  the  possi- 
bility of  some  one  else  being  the  assassin,  it  still  remains 
to  show  that  reasonable  doubt  exists  that  the  defendant 
committed  the  crime." 

"There  were  three  persons  in  that  buggy,  Ned,  at  the 
time  of  the  murder."  Langdon  was  purposely  abrupt 
in  his  announcement,  as  he  had  promised  himself  the 
satisfaction  of  witnessing  his  friend's  surprise. 

"Indeed!"  Cunningham  was  genuinely  pleased  with 
[  119  ] 


THE    MOTH 


the  progress  of  Langdon's  work,  and  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  show  it.    "You  are  convinced  of  this?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  who  the  third  man  was?" 

"It  was  a  woman." 

"  Good ! "  Cunningham's  face  beamed  and  he  held  out 
his  hand  impulsively.  "Tom,  this  case  is  going  to  make 
you,  whichever  way  it  turns  out.  Now  tell  me  what  your 
theory  is." 

"Of  course  it's  all  theory  yet,  — until  I  can  find  the 
woman,"  Langdon  began,  frankly  gratified  by  Cunning- 
ham's evident  approval;  "but  at  all  events  it  introduces 
the  possibility  that  some  one  other  than  Montgomery 
did  the  shooting,  and  the  curious  direction  taken  by  the 
bullets  makes  my  theory  stronger.  I  am  working  on  the 
basis  that  the  woman  sat  on  the  outside  right-hand  side, 
with  Montgomery  in  the  middle  holding  the  reins.  From 
that  position  she  could  have  shot  both  men,  and  the 
similarity  in  the  direction  of  the  two  shots  explains  what 
has  been  a  mystery  regarding  Montgomery's  wound.  With 
one  man  dead  and  the  other  unconscious,  she  could  easily 
have  stopped  the  buggy  long  enough  to  get  out  and 
then  start  the  horse  again.  Isn't  that  theory  perfectly 
plausible?" 

"Perfectly,"  Cunningham  agreed.  "But  have  you 
found  any  motive?" 

"Not  yet;  but  two  men  and  a  woman  offer  the  eternal 
triangle." 

"True;  but  the  woman  might  have  been  merely  the 
cause  of  the  tragedy.  Have  you  positive  evidence  that 
it  was  a  woman?" 

"Montgomery  admitted  it,  under  protest.  I  think  he 
wants  to  shield  her." 

[120] 


THE    MOTH 


"He  actually  admitted  it?" 

"Yes;  under  protest. " 

"He  makes  no  accusations?" 

"None.  He  won't  give  her  name,  and  refuses  to  have 
her  brought  into  the  case." 

Cunningham  reflected  for  a  moment.  "What  do  you 
make  out  of  that?"  he  asked. 

"Either  a  fear  that  she  will  hurt  his  case  or  some 
consideration  for  her." 

"If  she  had  been  the  other  man's  accessory,  he  probably 
wouldn't  hesitate  to  incriminate  her,  would  he?" 

"No;  but  he  may  be  interested  in  her  in  spite  of  that. 
We've  seen  similar  cases. " 

"If  she  had  deliberately  shot  him  he  would  hardly  try 
to  shield  her?  "  Cunningham  pursued,  meditatively. 

"I  haven't  carried  it  as  far  as  that,"  Langdon  admitted. 
"At  present  my  job  is  to  locate  that  woman.  I  think  we 
shall  know  a  whole  lot  more  after  I  find  her." 

Again  Cunningham  became  reflective,  and  Langdon 
thought  his  manner  curious.  Still  it  was  evident  that  it 
showed  approval. 

"You're  doing  good  work,  Tom,"  Cunningham  said 
at  length.  "This  interview  today  demonstrates  my  claim 
that  frankness  between  counsel  is  for  mutual  advantage 
when  both  are  playing  the  game  straight.  What  you  tell 
me  of  Montgomery's  admission  that  there  was  a  woman 
in  the  buggy  clears  up  several  points.  I  tried  to  get  the 
facts  out  of  him  and  failed.  Now  I  think  perhaps  I  can 
reciprocate." 

"There  isn't  much  more  to  be  done  until  I  find  the 
woman,  is  there?"  Langdon  inquired. 

"That  is  where  I  can  help  you." 

"How — "  Langdon  began,  as  Cunningham  stepped! 
1 121  ] 


THE    MOTH 


to  his  desk  and  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  from  a  large  bundle, 
which  he  handed  to  his  friend. 

"What  we've  found  out  regarding  this  woman  here 
seemed  to  indicate  her  connection  with  Montgomery, 
and  what  he  admitted  to  you  apparently  corroborates 
it."  It  could  hardly  be  a  coincidence.  Here  is  her 
name  and  address,"  he  continued.  "  She  is  being 
shadowed,  so  she  can't  possibly  get  away.  Later  we  will 
have  her  at  the  District-Attorney's  office  and  talk  things 
over  together.  I  hope  she  will  help  prove  your  theory, 
but  frankly  I'm  convinced  that  she  will  be  the  best 
witness  the  prosecution  could  possibly  have." 

Langdon's  pride  suffered  from  the  discovery  that  the 
prosecution  was  ahead  of  him  in  locating  the  woman,  but 
he  was  no  less  keenly  alert  to  the  favorable  turn  it  gave 
to  the  position  of  the  defense.  "It's  a  lucky  thing  for  that 
poor  devil  in  Charles  Street  jail  that  he  has  a  man  like 
you  on  the  other  side,"  he  said  appreciatively. 

Cunningham  laughed.  "It  wasn't  so  long  ago  that 
you  suggested  it  might  be  a  handicap,"  he  reminded  him. 
"You  said  something  about  my  'uncanny  power.'  Go 
to,  you  rascal!  Now  I  know  it  was  nothing  but  blarney!" 

"I  did  mean  it,"  Langdon  protested  seriously;  "I 
meant  every  word  of  it;  but  I  didn't  realize  then  that  a 
case  could  he  handled  like  this."  He  looked  steadfastly 
at  his  companion  for  a  moment,  and  his  face  gradually 
broke  into  a  broad  smile. 

"Say,  Ned,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  holding  out  his 
hand,  "the  law  is  all  right  after  all,  isn't  it?" 


[122] 


XIV 


A  CHESTER  had  not  seen  Lucy  since  he  said  good- 
bye standing  in  front  of  the  Badminton  Club, 
after  their  morning  run  up  from  Beverly  Farms 
together;  but  there  had  not  been  a  day  when  she  was  not 
present  in  his  thoughts.  He  hardly  expected  that  she 
would  remember  her  promise  to  telephone  him,  and  until 
she  did  so  he  felt  that  he  had  no  right  to  do  anything  which 
should  remind  her  of  it.  Moreover,  he  was  eager  to  see 
whether  she  would  feel  impelled  to  suggest  another  meet- 
ing, or,  as  other  men  who  had  performed  their  part  in 
the  day's  entertainment,  was  he  to  be  laid  aside  and 
forgotten  unless  accident  again  brought  them  together? 
As  the  days  passed  and  no  word  came  he  remembered  the 
casual  way  in  which  she  turned  from  him  to  Cunningham 
on  that  same  eventful  morning.  This  thought  caused  him 
to  tug  once  or  twice  at  his  heavy  mustache,  but  he  smiled 
in  that  fatalistic  way  common  to  soldiers  and  determined 
to  consider  her  as  an  agreeable  passing  fancy,  as  she 
evidently  considered  him. 

The  Captain  was  in  the  habit  of  indulging  in  introspec- 
tion, the  result  perhaps  of  his  long  army  service.  He  was 
a  man  of  action,  yet  every  act  was  the  result  of  prede- 
termination. He  was  a  devotee  of  the  beautiful,  whether 
he  found  it  in  art,  literature,  or  nature;  and  his  brother's 

[123] 


THE    MOTH 


death,  which  placed  him  at  the  head  of  his  ancestral 
house  in  England,  also  placed  him  unexpectedly  in  a 
position  where  he  could  gratify  his  tastes.  His  first 
interest  in  Lucy  Spencer  came  from  the  fact  that  he  con- 
sidered her  more  beautiful  than  any  woman  he  had  ever 
seen,  and  he  appreciated  the  privilege  of  admiring  her 
exactly  as  if  she  had  been  a  masterpiece  of  sculpture  or 
of  art.  His  second  interest  had  been  that  of  being  amused, 
as  he  found  her  companionship  highly  entertaining;  and 
finally  he  had  reached  the  conclusion  that  in  her  he  had 
discovered  a  woman  whose  code  of  life  differed  materially 
from  that  generally  accepted  by  the  world,  but  which 
exactly  coincided  with  his  own. 

The  one  thing  which  the  Captain  was  not,  was  a  senti- 
mentalist, and  no  one  knew  this  better  than  himself. 
Thus  it  was  that  in  his  retrospection  he  had  received 
something  of  a  shock  to  discover  that  to  the  three  dis- 
tinct interests  he  had  felt  in  Lucy  there  must  now  be 
added  a  fourth.  Not  that  the  new  interest  was  as  yet 
developed  to  appreciable  proportions,  but  to  discover  the 
presence  of  a  feeling  toward  her  akin  to  affection  was  an 
event  of  sufficient  importance  to  warrant  more  than  pass- 
ing attention.  Under  his  code  he  did  not  consider  the 
fact  that  she  happened  to  be  a  married  woman  an  in- 
surmountable barrier,  for  in  his  mind  the  gentle  art  of 
divorce  was  instituted  primarily  for  the  purpose  of  per- 
mitting spirits  which  failed  to  discover  congeniality  in 
their  first  attempt  to  rectify  early  mistakes.  The  first 
point  of  vital  significance  was  to  determine  absolutely 
his  own  attitude  in  the  matter,  and  with  this  settled  in 
the  affirmative  it  only  remained  for  him  to  ascertain 
whether  or  not  Lucy's  expressions  were  more  than 
passing  compliments.  This  conception  of  love  seemed  to 

[124] 


THE    MOTH 


him  the  highest  form  and  the  most  certain  to  be 
enduring  because  based  upon  the  intellect  rather  than 
upon  propinquity  or  impulse. 

After  his  discovery  and  a  careful  examination  into  its 
significance  the  Captain  placed  it  one  side  for  later  refer- 
ence if  opportunity  offered  and  judgment  sanctioned. 
Knowing  that  it  was  there  was  a  distinct  safeguard  against 
surprise.  Yet  when  the  message  came  inviting  him  to 
Beverly  Farms  he  was  interested  and  pleased  to  find 
that  it  was  this  fourth  interest  in  his  hostess  which  first 
expressed  its  satisfaction. 

The  invitation  itself  was  the  result  of  a  sudden  recol- 
lection on  Lucy's  part  of  a  promise  which  as  yet  remained 
unfulfilled.  The  fortnight  which  had  elapsed  since  Mar- 
garet's call,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  been  most  unin- 
spiring. She  was  honestly  affected  by  what  Cunningham 
and  Margaret  had  said  to  her,  and  she  had  tried  faith- 
fully to  make  a  new  life  for  herself  along  the  lines  they  had 
suggested.  She  had  the  children  with  her  every  day, 
played  with  them,  took  them  riding  with  her,  and  had 
them  at  table,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  through  this 
greater  familiarity  she  came  to  know  them  better  and  to 
enjoy  them  more.  But  the  fact  remained  that  it  was  a 
strain  upon  her  which  she  found  difficult  to  endure.  No 
day  passed  without  a  "scene"  of  some  kind  with  one  or 
both  of  them,  whenever  it  became  necessary  to  have  the 
routine  depart  from  what  they  washed.  The  control 
which  Susette  had  previously  possessed  was  noticeably 
waning,  and  it  was  no  longer  certain  that  when  Lucy 
turned  them  over  to  the  governess,  after  her  limitations 
had  been  reached,  the  tempest  would  come  to  a  sum- 
mary conclusion.  By  the  time  afternoon  came  Lucy  re- 
tired to  her  room  completely  exhausted,  unable  even  with 

[1251 


THE    MOTH 


closed  doors  to  shut  out  the  memory  of  the  wails  which 
had  filled  the  house  wTith  the  tragedies  of  childhood. 

Her  moments  of  relief  during  this  same  period  were  few. 
Spencer  had  been  very  little  at  the  house,  remaining 
away  for  days  together,  which  was  a  new  thing  for  him. 
Her  lawyer  had  written  twice,  asking  if  she  would  make 
an  appointment  to  talk  over  the  question  of  her  husband's 
drafts,  but  the  letters  remained  upon  her  writing-desk 
unanswered.  Archie  Reed  stopped  at  the  house  one  after- 
noon to  take  her  out  in  his  new  machine,  but  it  happened 
to  be  at  a  time  when  she  had  thrown  herself  down  with 
a  splitting  headache  after  an  unusually  violent  experience 
with  Larry,  and  she  excused  herself,  only  to  regret  it  a 
moment  after  the  car  passed  out  of  hearing. 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  continue  without  some  sort 
of  relaxation,  and  when  her  mind  searched  for  the  specific 
form  she  thought  of  Auchester  and  her  promise.  Surely 
there  could  be  no  "indiscretion"  in  a  quiet  afternoon's 
ride  with  the  Captain,  and  she  had  made  a  promise,  any 
way,  which  she  was  bound  to  keep.  Neither  Ned  nor 
Margaret  had  suggested  that  she  give  up  the  world 
altogether.  Ned,  in  fact,  had  spoken  of  the  legitimate 
enjoyment  of  her  friends,  and  this  certainly  came  under 
that  head. 

As  arranged  over  the  telephone,  Lucy  met  her  guest  at 
Pride's  Crossing  and  then  took  the  familiar  shore  road 
through  Manchester  and  Magnolia  to  Gloucester.  The 
afternoon  was  warm,  but  the  breeze  was  off  the  water, 
which  tempered  the  air  delightfully.  Lucy  welcomed  the 
Captain  with  a  cordiality  which,  while  restrained  for  her, 
yet  evidenced  a  pleasure  born  of  two  weeks'  seclusion; 
Auchester  was  experiencing  the  enjoyment  of  a  moment 
which  he  had  been  anticipating  for  over  a  month. 

[126] 


THE    MOTH 


"You  are  looking  tired,"  he  said  frankly  after  the 
formalities  had  been  exchanged  and  the  car  was  well 
under  way. 

"I  am,"  she  admitted.  "This  is  almost  the  first  relaxa- 
tion I  have  had  since  I  saw  you  last." 

"That  won't  do,"  he  continued,  looking  at  her  quickly. 
"I  have  no  right  to  ask,  but — ' 

"No;  it  hasn't  been  Vallie,"  she  smiled,  understanding 
his  unspoken  question.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  presume 
you  have  seen  more  of  him  lately  than  I  have." 

"I  haven't  seen  him  at  all.  I  don't  believe  he  has  been 
in  town,  —  I  heard  he  was  taking  a  vacation. " 

"Well,  —  perhaps  he  is;  but  he  hasn't  been  home  a 
dozen  times  since  you  were  down  here,  so  you  mustn't 
blame  him  for  my  jaded  appearance.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I'm  trying  an  experiment." 

Auchester  made  no  comment,  but  was  obviously  await- 
ing her  further  explanation. 

"Yes,"  she  continued;  "I  am  trying  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf.  I  have  been  too  unconventional  and  impul- 
sive; now  I  shall  be  so  matronly  and  sedate  that  you  won't 
recognize  me." 

"Your  freedom  from  the  slavery  of  convention  has  been 
what  I  admired  the  most." 

"I  presume  that  is  the  very  reason  Ned  thinks  it  dan- 
gerous," Lucy  replied  frankly. 

"Ned?  —  Mr.  Cunningham?"  Auchester  queried.  "I 
don't  understand.  What  has  he  to  do  with  it?  " 

"Everything,"  she  said  naively.  "Ned  and  Margaret, 
you  know,  are  my  most  intimate  friends.  I  thought  I 
could  make  my  own  conventions  so  long  as  they  affected 
no  one  except  myself,  but  I  have  been  persuaded  that  I 
am  wrong." 

[127] 


THE    MOTH 


"What  are  your  own  conventions?" 

"Oh,  I  never  tried  to  put  them  into  words,  and  perhaps 
it  has  been  the  disregard  of  what  already  exist  rather  than 
the  making  of  really  new  ones,  and  my  own." 

"You  believed  that  a  woman  ought  to  be  allowed  to 
express  her  personality  as  naturally  as  a  man  expresses 
his,  —  that  was  the  main  point,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes;  it  seems  all  wrong  to  me  to  say  one  thing  and 
mean  another.  When  I  like  a  woman  I  don't  hesitate  to 
shoV  it;  why  should  I  act  differently  with  a  man?" 

"You  can't  get  up  any  argument  with  me  on  that 
subject,"  Auchester  assured  her,  "for  I  sympathize  with 
you  entirely.  I  see  no  reason  why  every  one,  regardless 
of  sex,  should  not  act  himself.  That  was  what  I  meant 
when  I  said  that  it  was  this  which  I  so  much  admire  in 
you.  Don't  let  any  one  persuade  you  to  give  it  up,  I 
entreat." 

"But  I  must,"  Lucy  said  with  regret  in  her  voice; 
"Ned  is  right  in  saying  that  this  freedom  leads  on  to  mis- 
interpretation, which  a  woman  can't  afford.  Ned  and  I 
don't  always  agree,  but  he  is  never  wrong." 

"I  envy  Mr.  Cunningham  the  closeness  of  his  friend- 
ship," Auchester  said. 

"You  needn't;  I  make  him  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"I  do,  even  after  what  you  say.  I  differ  from  him,  but 
he  is  probably  a  safer  guide  than  I,  for  I  refuse  to  allow 
even  the  conventions  of  men  to  stand  between  me  and 
what  I  believe  to  be  right." 

"How  interesting!"  Lucy  exclaimed;  "but  I  didn't 
know  there  were  any  conventions  which  men  were  ex- 
pected to  regard. " 

"Take  that  of  marriage,  for  instance,"  Auchester  con- 
tinued. "To  me  the  only  sacred  part  of  the  sacrament  is 

[128] 


THE    MOTH 


that  which  is  not  performed  by  man.  The  ceremony 
which  is  regarded  binding  is  made  necessary  only  to  pro- 
tect civil  institutions.  A  man  and  a  woman  who  love  each 
other  are  married  before  God  whether  or  not  the  actual 
ritual  has  been  pronounced." 

"What  about  a  man  and  a  woman  who  are  married 
without  loving  each  other?  "  Lucy  asked  quietly. 

"All  that  exists  in  that  case  is  a  legal  tie  which  is  a 
mockery  to  have  exist  at  all." 

Neither  one  spoke  for  several  moments.  Auchester 
watched  his  companion  carefully  as  she  sat  with  her 
face  averted,  buried  deep  in  thought.  No  one  had  ever 
put  the  matter  before  Lucy  in  just  this  light,  and  it  was 
impossible  for  it  to  do  other  than  strike  home.  Auchester 
intended  it  to  do  so,  for  with  his  renewed  acquaintance 
his  fourth  interest  had  asserted  itself.  He  knew  that  this 
woman  sitting  silently  beside  him,  heedless  of  the  passing 
panorama,  represented  to  him  the  ideal  of  what  he  wished 
his  wife  to  be.  He  held  himself  a  man  of  honor,  and  life 
.itself  would  never  for  a  moment  stand  between  that  honor 
and  its  defense;  but  the  simple  fact  that  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law  and  of  society  this  woman  was  bound  to  a  man  who 
himself  disregarded  the  tie,  in  no  way  seemed  to  him  an 
obligation  which  honor  should  respect.  He  was  not  a  man 
to  take  an  underhand  advantage.  He  would  fight  in  the 
open,  just  as  he  had  always  fought.  When  his  country 
deemed  it  necessary  to  right  a  wrong  by  force  of  arms,  alf 
previously  existing  laws  were  cast  aside  except  the  one 
which  the  force  of  arms  itself  represented.  It  was  a  similar 
case  now.  Lucy  Spencer  was  preordained  for  him  and 
for  no  one  else.  Because  a  mistake  had  been  made  was 
no  reason  why  it  should  stand  forever.  It  all  rested  with 
her.  If  she  loved  him,  then  he  would  carry  all  else  before 
9  [  129  ] 


THE    MOTH 


him,  take  her  back  with  him  to  England,  and  surround 
her  with  the  life  to  which  he  believed  she  naturally 
belonged. 

Lucy  turned  to  him  at  length.  "I  suppose  that  does 
describe  the  relations  between  Vallie  and  me,"  she  said, 
reverting  to  his  last  remark. 

"It  describes  the  relations  of  more  married  people  than 
you  or  I  have  any  idea  of,"  Auchester  replied;  "and  oh! 
the  pity  of  it!" 

She  was  silent  again  but  for  a  shorter  period.  "I  don't 
see  any  way  to  remedy  it  in  my  case  without  making 
things  a  great  deal  worse." 

"Unless  you  met  some  one  for  whom  you  really  cared," 
he  said  quickly;  "then  it  would  be  comparatively  simple." 

She  listened  to  his  answer  without  remark,  for  her  own 
words  were  but  an  echo  from  the  flood  of  thought  which 
their  conversation  had  loosened.  What  had  her  married 
life  ever  meant  to  her?  She  had  not  considered  it  seriously 
from  the  first,  rather  accepting  it  as  the  conventional 
step  to  be  taken  at  a  certain  point  in  the  evolution  of  the 
girl  into  the  woman.  Yet  she  had  taken  the  step  before 
that  point  was  reached,  for  she  realized  without  crystal- 
lizing the  thought  that  for  her  womanhood  was  only  just 
being  attained.  Had  she  waited  —  but  it  was  too  late  to 
consider  that  now. 

So  deeply  was  she  absorbed  that  for  the  moment  she 
forgot  her  companion.  Mechanically,  in  order  to  recall 
herself  to  the  present,  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  fore- 
head, and  then  let  it  fall  beside  her.  She  was  conscious 
that  it  rested  upon  Auchester's,  yet  she  made  no  effort 
to  remove  it.  Only  when  he  gently  pressed  it  did  she  come 
fully  to  herself. 

"Unless  you  met  some  one  for  whom  you  really  cared," 
[130] 


THE    MOTH 


he  repeated  meaningly,  bending  his  head  a  little  closer 
to  her  face. 

Lucy  laughed  consciously  as  she  quickly  withdrew  her 
hand.  "Do  you  think  so?"  she  asked  simply.  "It  isn't 
quite  so  clear  to  me.  But  after  all,"  she  added,  with  a 
return  of  her  earlier  smile,  "it  would  be  foolish  to  give 
our  ride  up  to  the  consideration  of  any  possibility  as 
remote  as  that,  wouldn't  it?" 


1131] 


XV 


LAWYERS  reserve  to  themselves  the  prerogative 
of  postponing  to  suit  their  own  convenience  those 
questions  which  they  prefer  not  to  face  at  the 
moment,  but  clients  have  no  such  privilege.  Lucy's 
attorney,  an  old-time  friend  of  her  father's,  was  not  sur- 
prised that  both  his  letters  requesting  an  interview  re- 
mained unanswered,  for  he  had  known  her  from  childhood 
and  had  become  familiar  with  certain  of  her  peculiarities, 
but  he  had  reached  a  point  where  a  decision  was  impera- 
tive; so,  wise  man  that  he  was,  he  trusted  no  longer  to 
the  mails  or  to  the  greater  uncertainty  of  a  woman's 
whims.  As  a  still  further  evidence  of  his  wisdom,  he 
selected  as  the  moment  for  his  call  at  Beverly  Farms  the 
latter  part  of  the  morning  —  that  time  in  a  woman's 
day  when  she  is  rested  from  the  fatigue  of  preparation 
and  not  as  yet  overcome  by  the  necessity  of  exertion. 

Lucy  could  have  given  no  rational  excuse  for  her  failure 
to  reply  to  his  one-sided  correspondence,  but  intuitively 
she  associated  the  request  for  an  interview  with  some- 
thing unexpressed  and  unexplained  which  would  prove 
disagreeable;  and  as  a  matter  of  principle  she  always  fled 
from  the  unpleasant.  There  is  a  bird  wrell-known  to 
natural  history  which  buries  its  head  in  the  sand  when- 
ever it  wishes  to  escape  observation.  Metaphorically 
Lucy  resorted  to  the  same  expedient  when  she  found  her- 

[132] 


THE    MOTH 


self  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  impending  discomfort.  As 
long  as  she  could  avoid  meeting  trouble  in  any  form  she 
need  not  concern  herself  with  its  nature. 

The  first  letter  had  incidentally  referred  to  the  drafts 
which  Spencer  had  recently  made  against  her  estate,  of 
which  Mr.  Amsden  acted  as  trustee  and  adviser.  The 
income  had  always  sufficed  to  gratify  every  desire  Lucy 
possessed,  so  she  concerned  herself  little  with  the  adminis- 
tration, looking  upon  the  necessity  of  signing  papers 
and  agreeing  to  transfers  as  among  those  annoyances 
incidental  to  life,  which  her  lawyer  made  as  little  irksome 
as  possible.  The  property  was  divided  into  two  parts, 
one  being  a  trust  fund,  the  income  from  which  went 
directly  to  her  husband,  the  principal  reverting  at  his 
death  to  her  or  to  the  children;  the  balance  stood  in  her 
name  without  restriction. 

One  of  the  trials  experienced  by  the  trustee  was 
Lucy's  unwillingness  to  keep  the  two  accounts  separate. 
For  a  number  of  years,  Spencer  had  drawn  for  his  personal 
expenditures  considerably  more  than  the  income  from 
the  trust  fund,  but  whenever  the  subject  was  brought  to 
her  attention  she  insisted  that  matters  be  allowed  to  run 
on  as  they  were.  Lucy  abhorred  disagreeing  with  any  one, 
and  she  was  disappointed  that  Mr.  Amsden  had  not  dis- 
covered how  hard  it  really  was  for  her  to  refuse  his  request 
to  place  everything  upon  a  business  basis.  He  had 
pointed  out  that  this  would  not  necessarily  require  the 
curtailing  of  her  husband's  expenditures,  as  she  would 
still  be  quite  free  to  turn  over  to  him  as  large  a  share  of 
her  own  income  as  she  saw  fit;  but  the  present  arrange- 
ment placed  the  executor  in  the  predicament  of  assenting 
to  something  which  was  at  variance  with  her  father's 
desires  as  expressed  in  the  will. 

[133] 


THE    MOTH 


This  was  undoubtedly  the  subject  which  Mr.  Amsden 
had  come  to  discuss,  and  Lucy  was  distinctly  bored  by 
the  prospect  ahead  of  her.  The  lawyer  was  an  elderly 
gentleman  of  the  old  school,  who  took  the  responsibility 
which  her  father  had  placed  upon  him  with  the  utmost 
seriousness.  His  former  relations  with  the  family,  while 
Lucy  was  a  child,  were  those  of  friend,  but  from  the 
moment  when  he  entered  upon  his  duties  as  trustee 
these  relations  were  completely  changed.  He  now  stood 
in  the  capacity  of  a  paid  retainer,  and  took  every  precau- 
tion necessary  to  prevent  the  appearance  of  combining 
business  and  friendship.  He  guarded  Lucy's  interests 
with  a  protective  care  which  could  not  have  been  exceeded 
were  the  property  his  own;  secretly  he  passed  hours  of 
anxiety  over  the  extravagances  he  could  but  see:  yet  with 
studied  care  he  kept  his  relations  with  his  client  well  within 
strictly  business  limits. 

Lucy  was  sitting  on  the  piazza,  deep  in  a  story  of  modern 
society  life  which  was  deliciously  risque,  and  she  would 
far  rather  continue  the  thrilling  tale  than  be  called 
back  to  realities  by  a  discussion  of  anything  so  hopelessly 
prosaic  as  Vallie  and  money.  But  Mr.  Amsden  was  a 
friend  albeit  an  old  fogy,  and  the  least  she  could  do  was 
to  be  civil  in  exchange  for  the  trouble  he  had  taken. 
As  long  as  she  could,  she  kept  him  talking  about  any- 
thing and  everything  rather  than  the  subject  which  she 
knew  was  upon  his  mind.  Mr.  Amsden  was  interested 
in  musical  matters,  so  she  asked  him  innumerable  ques- 
tions regarding  the  guarantee  fund  being  raised  for  the 
Opera,  and  the  prospects  for  the  coming  season.  The 
change  in  the  Symphony  conductors  offered  another 
fruitful  subject,  and  although  she  knew  that  his  prefer- 
ences exactly  coincided  with  her  own  in  the  discussion 

[134] 


then  prevalent  of  the  relative  merits  of  the  two  con- 
ductors, she  deliberately  took  the  opposite  side  in  order 
to  prolong  the  conversation.  But  she  found  herself  com- 
pletely submerged  when  Mr.  Amsden's  enthusiasm  carried 
him  into  a  lengthy  presentation  of  what  he  believed  to 
be  mistaken  zeal  on  the  part  of  the  smaller  men  in  the 
modern  school  of  composers,  in  giving  up  the  expression 
of  their  own  individuality  in  their  struggle  against  the 
obvious.  She  brought  down  upon  herself  the  wall  of  the 
house,  when  she  had  sought  only  to  interpose  a  screen; 
and  in  self-defense  she  reminded  her  caller  of  his  probable 
errand,  which  was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  she  had 
intended  to  do. 

"I  suppose  you  have  some  more  of  those  horrid  papers 
for  me  to  sign,"  she  said  at  length,  seeing  that  Mr.  Amsden 
was  about  to  advance  his  carefully  thought  out  criticism 
of  modern  literature.  "Why  do  I  have  to  do  it  anyway? 
I  know  only  what  you  tell  me  about  things,  and  you  can 
do  it  much  better  yourself." 

"It  was  not  in  regard  to  transfers  that  I  wrote  you, 
Mrs.  Spencer,"  Mr.  Amsden  said,  pausing  a  moment  be- 
fore his  reply  in  order  to  grasp  firmly  the  thread  of 
the  new  line  of  discourse.  "It  is  the  fact  that  your 
husband's  drafts  are  now  so  heavily  in  excess  of  his  in- 
come, that  I  venture  to  bring  the  matter  to  your 
attention." 

"But  we  have  talked  that  over  several  times,"  Lucy 
protested.  "I  have  no  desire  to  quarrel  with  Vallie  over 
a  few  pennies." 

"  But  it  amounts  to  very  much  more  than  a  few  pennies, 
Mrs.  Spencer." 

"I  know,  but  just  see  how  the  cost  of  living  has  gone 
up  since  papa  arranged  what  he  should  spend." 

[135] 


THE    MOTH 


"Then  your  instructions  are  to  honor  your  husband's 
drafts,  no  matter  how  much  they  exceed  the  limit  your 
father  placed  upon  him?" 

"I  am  sure  papa  would  increase  his  allowance  if  he  were 
alive,"  Lucy  insisted.  "He  would  understand  even  better 
than  I  do  that  everything  costs  more  now.  I  don't  want 
Vallie  to  think  that  I  begrudge  him  what  he  spends." 

"All  1  wish  is  to  learn  your  exact  desires  in  the  matter," 
Mr.  Amsden  replied.  "I  have  no  right  even  to  suggest 
what  is  contrary  to  your  own  best  judgment,  but  I  feel 
it  my  duty  to  acquaint  you  with  the  facts." 

"Duty!"  cried  Lucy  impulsively.  "How  I  am  getting 
to  hate  that  word!  Every  one  is  telling  me  something 
about  'duty,'  and  I'm  beginning  to  think  it  the  most 
hideous  word  in  the  language!" 

Mr.  Amsden  was  surprised  at  Lucy's  outbreak,  but  it 
did  not  deter  him  from  delivering  his  message.  "I  must 
tell  you,  none-the-less,  that  if  you  insist  upon  disregarding 
the  sums  your  husband  draws  it  will  be  necessary  for  you 
to  curtail  your  own  expenses." 

Lucy  sat  upright,  now  fully  aroused  from  her  indif- 
ference. "What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded.  "Has 
anything  happened  to  niy  property?" 

"Nothing,"  the  lawyer  replied  calmly.  "It  is  yielding 
more  today  than  it  ever  has;  but  there  is  a  limit  even 
to  the  estate  which  your  father  left  you." 

"But  there  never  has  been  before,"  she  protested. 
"Why  should  there  be  now?" 

"Because  Mr.  Spencer  is  drawing  very  much  more 
heavily  upon  it  than  ever  before." 

Lucy  waited  for  him  to  continue,  but  he  apparently 
had  no  intention  of  saying  more.  "How  much  is  Vallie 
exceeding  his  allowance?"  she  asked  reluctantly. 

[136] 


THE    MOTH 


"During  the  past  three  months  he  has  drawn  more 
than  twice  as  much  as  your  father  stipulated  should  be 
paid  him  for  the  entire  year." 

This  second  bit  of  information  staggered  Lucy  even 
more  than  the  first.  She  seldom  tried  to  think  in  figures, 
but  without  much  thought  she  was  fully  aware  that  this 
represented  a  vast  sum  of  money. 

"What  has  he  done  with  it?"  she  asked  at  length. 

Mr.  Amsden  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  would  be 
an  impertinence  for  me  even  to  surmise,"  he  replied. 

"Of  course  something  must  be  done  about  it,"  she 
admitted. 

"  I  see  no  alternative.  I  am  sure  he  will  appreciate  the 
situation  when  you  bring  it  to  his  attention." 

"Oh,  no!"  Lucy  cried;   "you  must  do  that." 

"I  am  perfectly  willing  to  see  him  or  to  write  him;  but 
of  course  I  can  act  only  as  your  agent." 

"But  that  wquld  be  better  than  for  me  to  say  anything 
to  him.  Vallie  has  a  brute  of  a  temper,  and  he  has  been 
in  a  horrible  humor  lately." 

"If  it  would  be  more  agreeable  to  you,  I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  see  him,"  Mr.  Amdsen  said,  rising. 

"It  would  be  very  much  more  agreeable,"  she  assented. 
"But  do  it  in  such  a  way  that  he  won't  know  we've  talked 
it  over." 

The  lawyer  smiled  for  the  first  time.  "I'm  afraid  I 
can't  do  that,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Spencer  knows  that  I 
have  no  power  to  restrict." 

"Then  there's  sure  to  be  a  scene." 

"I  don't  believe  Mr.  Spencer  will  be  unreason- 
able," Mr.  Amsden  replied  reassuringly.  "He  must 
appreciate  that  you  have  been  and  are  more  than 
generous." 

[137] 


THE    MOTH 


"You  don't  know  him,"  Lucy  said  disconsolately.  "I 
wonder  how  he  has  spent  all  that  money." 

Mr.  Amsden  either  could  not  or  was  unwilling  to  satisfy 
her  curiosity.  He  repeated  his  willingness  to  acquaint 
her  husband  with  the  decision  she  had  arrived  at,  ex- 
pressed his  high  personal  esteem,  and  took  his  departure. 

Lucy  was  thrown  into  a  fit  of  blues  after  the  lawyer's 
visit  from  which  she  found  it  difficult  to  extricate  herself. 
Money  had  meant  nothing  to  her,  for  she  had  not  been 
obliged  to  regard  it  as  other  than  a  medium  of  exchange. 
During  her  father's  life  she  was  gratified  in  every  desire 
of  her  heart,  great  or  small,  and  his  careful  provision  for 
her  comfort  after  his  death  had  enabled  her  to  continue 
along  the  same  easy  path.  The  fact  that  Vallie  had  in  a 
measure  been  dependent  upon  her  since  their  marriage 
had  signified  little.  There  was  enough  for  both,  and  it 
seemed  perfectly  natural  that  they  both  should  draw 
upon  the  same  common  fund.  She  could  not  imagine  him 
earning  his  own  living,  so,  if  she  had  thought  of  it  at 
all,  her  comparison  would  have  been  as  between  the  small 
income  he  received  from  his  comparatively  meager  prop- 
erty and  her  own  substantial  one.  But  the  astounding 
amount  he  had  drawn  during  the  past  three  months  for 
the  first  time  caused  her  to  focus  her  mind  upon  a  subject 
which  had  never  before  come  up  between  them. 

It  was  true  that  the  controlling  interest  lay  in  Lucy's 
curiosity  regarding  the  occasion  which  had  demanded 
such  expenditures.  She  knew  that  Vallie  gambled  freely, 
and  that  he  usually  lost,  but  this  would  not  explain  the 
size  of  the  drafts.  He  must  have  been  speculating,  which 
she  remembered  her  father  to  have  called  the  most  vicious 
form  of  gambling.  This  explanation  in  a  measure  satisfied 
her,  and  her  mind  next  turned  to  the  probable  effect 

[138] 


THE    MOTH 


Mr.  Amsden's  interview  with  Vallie  would  have  upon  her. 
He  would  be  very  angry,  she  was  sure.  But  the  lawyer 
had  spoken  of  the  generosity  she  had  always  shown  him, 
and  he  was  right.  As  she  thought  it  over,  she  had  been 
generous,  though  this  fact  had  never  before  impressed 
itself  upon  her.  And  what  had  Vallie  ever  done  to  show 
his  appreciation?  Nothing,  —  absolutely  nothing.  He 
accepted  it  all  as  a  commonplace  fact,  and  then  neglected 
her.  He  wouldn't  care  if  his  overdrafts  forced  her  to 
curtail  her  own  expenses;  he  would  probably  expect  her 
to  do  so.  Then  she  remembered  her  conversation  with 
Auchester:  he  thought  her  a  fool  to  endure  Vallie's 
neglect,  she  could  see  that.  What  would  he  say  if  he  knew 
that  all  she  meant  to  her  husband  now  was  a  source  of 
supply?  Her  life  with  him  was  a  mockery,  just  as  the 
Captain  said.  Cunningham  would  have  her  endure  it 
all  for  the  sake  of  the  children,  —  her  salvation!  She 
wondered  just  how  each  of  these  two  men  would  answer 
her  question  if  she  put  it  to  him  squarely.  Why  should 
she  wonder?  She  knew!  Auchester  was  a  man  through 
and  through,  with  red  blood  coursing  in  his  veins,  with  a 
true  appreciation  of  what  life  meant,  and  the  right  each 
one  had  to  live  his  own  and  in  his  own  way.  But  that  was 
exactly  what  Vallie  was  doing,  only  there  was  a  difference 
in  that  he  was  living  his  life  on  her  money.  Cunningham 
had  different  ideals.  He  saw  everything  from  a  legal 
standpoint.  She  had  rights,  but  they  could  not  be  ex- 
ercised separately  from  Vallie's  or  the  children's.  And 
he  believed  in  "duty"!  Oh,  what  an  ugly  word!  She 
had  lived  with  it,  slept  with  it,  dreamed  of  it,  and  almost 
perished  of  ennui  in  the  experience.  Two  men,  both  in 
the  world  and  of  it,  yet  taking  so  different  a  view- 
point of  all  which  surrounded  them!  She  had  accepted 

[139] 


THE    MOTH 


Cunningham  as  guide  and  mentor.  Why  should  she 
choose  him  rather  than  Auchester?  The  Captain  was  cer- 
tainly the  more  agreeable  companion.  He  never  scolded 
her  for  acts  of  folly;  he  admired  her  freedom  from  con- 
ventionality, and  told  her  not  to  be  persuaded  to  act  like 
other  women  just  because  other  women  acted  as  they 
did.  Cunningham  treated  her  as  a  child,  and  so  did 
Margaret. 

Back  and  forth  like  a  shuttlecock  she  tossed  the  con- 
flicting thoughts,  one  moment  full  of  gratitude  to  Cunning- 
ham for  his  friendship,  the  next,  rebelling  against  his 
watchfulness  over  her.  One  moment  happy  in  the  memory 
of  some  word  of  praise  from  Auchester,  the  next,  fright- 
ened by  the  social  heresy  expressed  in  his  views.  But 
all  the  time  her  heart  debated,  with  the  fiercest  argu- 
ments pro  and  con,  which  man's  view  of  life  was  right, 
—  which  one's? 


[1401 


XVI 


A  UCHESTER,  experienced  soldier  that  he  was,  had 
/%  carefully  worked  out  his  plan  for  an  attack  upon 
-*-  -^-  the  citadel  of  a  woman's  heart.  He  was  convinced 
that  at  present  it  was  unoccupied,  and  that  its  only  pro- 
tective ramparts  were  the  original  fortifications  built  of  im- 
perfect materials.  Lucy  was  inured  to  the  habit  of  being 
married,  and  convention  had  brought  her  to  the  point  of 
believing  that  the  citadel  could  never  again  be  stormed. 
Her  innocence  in  this  respect,  so  at  variance  with  her  dis- 
regard of  other  conventions,  struck  the  Captain  as  a 
curious  paradox;  but  with  him  affairs  had  reached  a  point 
where  everything  she  did,  and  the  original  way  in  which 
she  did  it,  made  her  that  much  more  appealing. 

The  method  of  his  attack  was  subtle  arid  to  that  extent 
expressive  of  himself.  One  less  experienced  than  the 
Captain  would  have  sent  her  flowers  and  candy,  but 
this  would  have  been  commonplace.  Auchester  was  far 
above  the  commonplace,  so  instead  of  these  obvious  evi- 
dences of  admiration  he  sent  her  sometimes  a  bit  of  rare 
china  or  lace,  sometimes  fruit  which  must  have  come  from 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  sometimes  merely  a 
verse  of  poetry;  but  each  token  was  of  such  a  nature  that 
it  could  not  fail  to  arouse  her  curiosity,  thus  requiring 
an  explanation  and  serving  to  keep  the  donor  very  much 
before  her  mind's  eye.  The  attack  was  only  a  sortie  at 

[141] 


THE    MOTH 


first,  but  as  the  citadel  gave  no  evidences  of  self-defense 
he  became  more  bold,  and  Lucy  came  to  look  forward  to 
the  arrival  of  each  mysterious  package  as  an  oasis  in  the 
monotony  of  her  daily  routine. 

There  was  no  disguising  the  fact  that  the  daily  routine 
was  monotonous,  and  that  this  summer,  as  far  as  Lucy's 
enjoyment  was  concerned,  had  been  a  dismal  failure.  In 
other  years  each  week  had  been  filled  with  excitement 
of  one  sort  or  another,  and  the  days  fled  past  with  in- 
credible speed.  Now  it  was  an  event  even  to  have  the 
monotony  broken  at  all.  She  was  lonely  and  unhappy, 
and  during  the  many  hours  in  which  she  found  too  much 
opportunity  to  think  she  tried  to  explain  to  herself  just 
what  the  difference  was,  and  how  it  had  come  about.  Of 
course  the  main  cause  was  the  change  in  herself,  under  the 
direct  influence  of  Margaret  and  Cunningham.  She  had 
accepted  their  viewpoint  more  by  way  of  atonement  than 
because  she  believed  it  to  be  right.  She  knew  that  she 
had  done  wrong  in  giving  way  to  her  impulse  with  Ned, 
but  she  wondered  if  her  atonement  was  not  by  this  time 
complete.  She  had  never  made  girl  friends,  even  as  a 
child.  As  she  became  older,  other  women  were  frightened 
off  by  her  frank  disregard  of  conventional  sobriety,  and 
her  preference  for  men  kept  them  on  the  footing  of  ac- 
quaintances only.  There  had  always  been  an  army  of 
men  flocking  in  Lucy's  wake,  but  now  they  had  fallen  off, 
one  by  one,  until  she  was  left  almost  to  herself;  and  as  a 
result  of  her  previous  indifference  she  had  no  one  else  to 
rely  upon.  She  could  not  understand  why  they  had 
deserted  her.  Earlier  in  the  summer  they  had  appeared 
as  usual,  dropping  in  for  tea  or  to  pick  her  up  for  a  motor 
ride,  or  inviting  her  to  some  event  at  one  or  another 
of  the  clubs;  but  for  the  past  month  Cunningham  and 

[142] 


Auchester  were  the  only  men  who  had  shown  the  slightest 
interest  in  her  existence.  It  must  be  that  the  new  kind  of 
life  she  was  trying  to  lead  had  made  her  less  attractive, 
and  she  knew  that  another  month  of  similar  experience 
would  make  her  so  spiritless  as  to  put  her  out  of  the  run- 
ning forever.  Lucy  saw  visions  rising  before  her  of  be- 
coming an  old  woman  at  twenty-eight !  And  what  really 
was  being  gained? 

In  the  exact  fulfillment  of  her  promise  to  Cunningham 
she  passed  a  part  of  each  day  with  the  children,  but  she 
had  not  yet  succeeded  in  making  it  other  than  a  perfunc- 
tory performance.  She  tried  to  play  with  them,  but  it 
was  utterly  unreasonable  that  they  should  expect  her 
actually  to  sit  on  the  sand  and  ruin  her  new  morning  gown. 
She  was  quite  ready  to  help  them  build  forts  if  they  would 
find  some  shady  place,  but  she  couldn't  be  of  much  assist- 
ance with  only  one  hand,  and  if  she  laid  down  her  sunshade 
her  face  would  become  horribly  freckled.  The  one  success 
she  felt  she  had  attained  was  in  reading  them  stories.  This 
came  just  before  bed-time  when  they  were  tired  enough 
to  keep  still,  and  she  did  feel  a  certain  degree  of  pleasure, 
and  a  new  sensation,  in  having  Babs  cuddle  contentedly 
in  her  lap,  while  Larry,  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  floor, 
listened  with  wide-open  eyes  to  the  wonderful  experiences 
of  Aladdin  or  Perseus  or  Ulysses.  Why  could  they  not 
always  be  quiet  like  this?  Yet,  had  she  thought,  they  could 
hardly  have  been  her  children  if  they  had  responded  to 
the  wish!  Lucy  really  believed  that  if  they  could  he 
subdued  she  might  find  in  them  some  real  companion- 
ship just  as  Ned  suggested;  but  she  was  still  convinced 
that  this  time  could  never  come  until  they  were  grown  up 
into  rational  beings. 

Vallie  became  more  and  more  altered  as  the  summer 
[143J 


THE    MOTH 


progressed.  Whether  it  was  because  Lucy  had  fewer  of 
her  own  interests  to  think  about,  or  whether  the  change 
was  as  complete  as  it  now  appeared  to  her,  she  could  not 
determine;  but  she  found  it  difficult  to  explain  to  herself 
how  she  had  endured  him  these  years  without  arriving 
at  her  present  conclusions  earlier.  At  all  events,  until 
this  summer  he  had  not  disclosed  how  disagreeable  he 
could  be.  She  was  perfectly  familiar  with  his  negative 
qualities,  but  she  had  not  realized  how  hopelessly  unin- 
teresting he  was.  His  business  was  nothing  but  a  pretext 
for  getting  away  from  the  house,  and  his  time  divided 
itself  between  various  forms  of  personal  enjoyment  in  no 
one  of  which  he  excelled.  Whatever  best  there  was  in 
him  must  be  given  to  his  friends,  for  Lucy  was  certain 
that  they  would  not  endure  the  surly,  uncomfortable  dis- 
position which  he  exhibited  at  home.  Cunningham  was 
a  man  of  action  and  a  man  of  character,  making  each  day 
count  for  something,  and  making  Margaret's  life  worth 
living.  He  too  had  changed  since  Lucy's  foolish  esca- 
pade with  him,  and  she  missed  the  previous  relations;  still 
she  could  but  respect  him  for  it  after  all.  With  the  re- 
sentment which  she  experienced  at  times  toward  the 
restraint  which  he  had  actually  imposed  upon  her,  and 
what  she  felt  to  be  the  unfair  outcome  of  it  all,  she  ad- 
mired him  more  than  any  man  she  had  ever  met;  and 
even  when  she  blamed  him  most  she  was  unconsciously 
proud  that  she  meant  enough  to  him  to  warrant  the 
friendship  which  he  extended. 

In  comparing  Vallie  with  Cunningham  Lucy  inevitably 
included  Auchester.  He  too  was  a  man  of  action,  and 
while  of  a  type  quite  different  from  Ned,  yet  he  also  ex- 
tracted from  each  day's  experience  something  to  count 
in  the  grand  total  of  what  he  was.  To  his  magnetic  pres- 

[144] 


THE    MOTH 


ence  and  undoubted  attainments  was  also  added  a  certain 
degree  of  mystery,  which  deepened  as  their  acquaintance 
ripened.  He  had  spoken  of  coming  into  his  property  on 
the  death  of  his  brother,  and  at  the  same  time  of  assum- 
ing the  position  of  head  of  his  ancestral  house.  Several 
times  Lucy  had  been  on  the  point  of  questioning  him, 
but  with  unusual  restraint  for  her,  or  because  there  was 
something  about  the  Captain  which  indicated  that  what 
he  wished  to  have  known  was  spoken  without  request, 
she  had  always  refrained.  There  was  no  mystery  about 
Vallie:  any  one  could  read  his  entire  character  in  the 
brief  space  of  time  necessary  for  an  introduction.  There 
was  little  of  the  mysterious  about  Cunningham:  her 
interest  in  him  was  because  of  his  strength  mellowed 
by  a  tenderness  which  was  almost  womanly;  her  interest 
in  Auchester  was  the  expression  of  a  gratified  pride  height- 
ened by  curiosity. 

Mr.  Amsden  had  been  prompt  in  carrying  through  his 
interview  with  Spencer.  Lucy  was  on  the  watch  for 
those  unmistakable  evidences  in  her  husband's  disposi- 
tion which  would  indicate  that  the  blow  had  fallen,  and 
she  discovered  them  long  before  he  chose  to  begin  the 
conversation  which  she  knew  was  bound  to  come.  In  the 
first  place,  when  she  came  down  stairs  at  her  usual  hour, 
she  found  him  nervously  pacing  the  piazza,  having  had 
his  breakfast  two  hours  earlier.  Then  again,  he  \\;is 
obviously  waiting  for  a  chance  to  talk  with  her,  when  for 
weeks  he  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  avoid  conversation; 
and  last,  but  not  of  least  importance,  Lucy  sensed  that 
he  had  keyed  himself  up  to  a  high  pitch  in  preparation 
for  a  great  event.  And  of  course  the  only  "great  event" 
which  could  possibly  be  considered  as  interesting  them 
both  was  the  question  of  his  income. 
10  [  145  ] 


THE    MOTH 


He  paused  abruptly  in  his  sentry-like  pacing  when  he 
heard  her  descending  step  upon  the  hallway  stairs,  and 
stood  looking  in  at  her  through  the  broad  open  door.  She 
saw  it  all  coming  and  longed  to  run  away.  Conditions 
have  much  to  do  with  the  making  of  heroes  as  well  as 
cowards,  and  when  even  the  most  timid  find  themselves 
face  to  face  with  that  which  they  have  dreaded,  with  every 
avenue  of  escape  closed  against  them,  it  is  seldom  that 
they  fail  to  rise  to  the  emergency.  So  it  was  with  Lucy: 
Vallie  showed  his  nervousness  plainly;  she  was  outwardly 
as  cool  as  if  this  had  been  an  ordinary  morning,  with 
nothing  more  unpleasant  ahead  of  her  than  the  prospect 
of  another  day  of  ennui. 

"Good  morning,  Vallie,"  she  said  cheerfully,  rinding 
that  she  must  speak  or  else  pass  by  him  in  silence.  "  You're 
up  early,  aren't  you?  Didn't  you  sleep  well?" 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you,"  he  replied  abruptly,  ignoring 
her  questions. 

"Not  until  I've  had  some  breakfast,"  Lucy  protested, 
seeing  an  opportunity  to  postpone  the  interview  a  few 
moments  longer;  "I  didn't  eat  a  thing  up  stairs,  and 
truly  I'm  famished!" 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  all  the  morning,"  Vallie 
urged.  "Why  can't  I  talk  to  you  while  you're  taking 
your  breakfast?" 

"Oh,  no,  Vallie;  you  know  I'm  never  in  good  humor 
until  after  I've  had  my  coffee." 

This  argument  had  its  appeal.  "All  right,"  he  yielded; 
"but  don't  be  long." 

"I  won't,  dear,"  she  replied,  pleased  to  have  gained 
even  a  brief  respite;  then  as  Vallie  resumed  his  pacings 
up  and  down,  the  incongruity  of  the  epithet  she  had  just 
used  struck  her  forcefully.  How  easily,  she  thought,  these 

[146] 


THE    MOTH 


terms  of  endearment  become  the  expression  of  the  lips 
and  not  the  heart! 

She  could  not  remember  ever  having  eaten  so  hearty  a 
breakfast  as  she  did  that  morning,  yet  the  end  was  bound 
to  come  at  last  and  with  it  the  beginning  of  the  ordeal,  — 
for  she  had  no  notion  that  they  could  conclude  matters  at  a 
single  session.  Bracing  herself  to  meet  it,  she  lighted  a 
cigarette  and  strolled  leisurely  out  upon  the  piazza,  settling 
herself  comfortably  in  her  favorite  chair. 

"Now,  Vallie,"  she  said,  "here  I  am;   fire  away." 

Spencer  came  to  a  full  stop  in  his  walk  as  she 
appeared,  and  remained  motionless  while  she  adjusted 
herself.  His  hands  were  dug  deep  down  into  the  pockets 
of  his  flannel  trousers,  and  his  white  yachting  cap,  which 
he  had  affected  since  his  intimacy  with  Eustis,  was 
set  rakishly  on  the  back  of  his  head.  As  Lucy  spoke  he 
came  over  to  her  chair  and  leaned  against  the  railing  of 
the  piazza,  facing  her. 

"What's  this  game  you  and  Amsden  have  cooked  up 
to  put  me  in  leading  strings?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 

"Didn't  Mr.  Amsden  tell  you  the  whole  story,  just  as 
he  did  me?" 

"He  told  me  what  he  chose  to  tell,  —  or  what  you 
told  him." 

"I  told  him  nothing  except  to  explain  the  situation 
to  you  exactly  as  he  had  to  me." 

"Then  I  have  to  account  to  you  for  every  cent  I  spend?" 
Vallie  asked  in  an  ugly  tone. 

"Is  that  what  Mr.  Amsden  suggested?" 

"That's  what  it  amounted  to.  You  know  I  can't  live 
on  the  niggardly  allowance  your  father  stipulated.  Why, 
Eustis'  yacht  costs  him  more  than  that." 

"Mr.  Eustis  uses  his  yacht  as  a  home,"  Lucy  suggested, 
[147] 


THE    MOTH 


"and  your  home  costs  more  than  that;    but  you  don't 
have  to  pay  for  it  out  of  your  allowance." 

"I  never  thought  things  would  come  to  this  pass."  he 
muttered,  leaving  her  statement  unchallenged. 

"  Until  Mr.  Amsden  called  my  attention  to  it  I  supposed 
there  was  enough  income  to  satisfy  everybody,"  Lucy 
continued  quietly;  "but  we  can't  spend  more  than  we 
have,  can  we?" 

"It  is  only  necessary  to  readjust  matters,"  he  urged. 
"I  have  never  before  been  so  humiliated,  and  I  won't 
be  again.  You  certainly  don't  need  all  you  get,  and  I 
want  you  to  fix  things  so  that  I  may  receive  my  share 
without  having  to  sit  up  and  beg  for  it." 

"Is  what  you  have  drawn  during  the  past  three  months 
what  you  consider  your  share,  Vallie?" 

"Yes,"  he  exclaimed  boldly,  seeing  in  Lucy's  calmness 
a  chance  to  carry  his  point. 

"Do  you  realize  that  this  would  give  you  for  your 
personal  expenses  four  times  as  much  as  would  be  left 
for  the  children  and  me,  not  even  taking  the  expenses  of 
the  house  into  consideration?  Of  course  the  estate  isn't 
large  enough  to  stand  that." 

Spencer,  knowing  her  dislike  for  mathematics,  had  not 
expected  to  find  Lucy  so  well  posted  as  to  figures,  and  he 
held  this  up  as  another  grudge  against  "Poppy"  Amsden, 
as  he  called  him. 

"As  it  is  now,  I  get  only  one- tenth  of  the  income,  — 

"You  mean  that  you  are  only  entitled  to  get  that 
amount,"  Lucy  corrected. 

"  Well,  put  it  that  way  if  you  choose.  I  can't  live  on  it, 
and  I  won't.  I  only  want  my  share,  but  I  insist  on  having 
that.  Suppose  we  divide  the  income.  I  could  probably 
get  along  on  that." 

[148] 


THE    MOTH 


Lucy's  thoughts  came  faster  than  her  words.  Today 
for  the  first  time  this  summer  her  husband  had  sought 
her  companionship,  and  even  now  it  was  not  because  he 
felt  that  he  owed  her  anything  of  himself,  or  because  he 
wanted  to  be  with  her.  It  was  purely  a  business  con- 
ference, into  which  trade  and  barter  were  the  only  ele- 
ments to  enter.  Would  Cunningham  have  done  this  with 
Margaret?  she  asked  herself;  would  Auchester  have  done 
it  with  her,  or  with  any  other  woman?  As  she  had  thought, 
she  stood  to  her  husband  only  as  a  source  of  supply,  yet 
before  the  world  they  jointly  stood  as  man  and  wife, 
linked  by  the  holiest  chain  which  love  can  forge.  Oh,  the 
pity  of  it !  her  heart  moaned,  as  she  looked  out  from  the 
depths  of  her  great  brown  eyes  and  regarded  this  man, 
whom  she  should  respect  as  her  life's  companion  and  as 
the  father  of  her  children,  —  first  begging  and  then  de- 
manding as  his  right  that  which  now  alone  remained  to 
make  her  necessary  to  his  existence! 

Spencer  thought  his  wife's  silence  signified  that  she 
was  considering  his  proposition,  and  the  fact  that  she 
entertained  it  at  all  gave  him  courage.  This  confidence 
left  him  unprepared  for  Lucy's  question. 

"Have  you  ever  thought,"  she  spoke  as  if  thinking 
aloud,  "that  perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  both  of  us  if 
we  called  the  whole  thing  off?" 

"Called  what  off?"  he  asked  in  a  puzzled  tone. 

"This  being  married,  when  there  really  isn't  anything 
to  it." 

"You  have  your  marriage  certificate,  haven't  you?" 
he  laughed  coarsely. 

"I  don't  mean  the  legal  side  of  it,"  Lucy  explained, 
trying  to  recall  the  exact  words  which  Auchester  had 
used.  "The  only  real  marriage,  you  know,  is  that  which 
isn't  performed  by  man  at  all." 

[149] 


THE    MOTH 


Vallie  laughed  again.  "What  have  you  been  doing,  — 
reading  poetry?" 

"I'm  really  serious,"  Lucy  insisted.  "I've  been  think- 
ing a  good  deal  about  it  lately.  I  evidently  bore  you  to 
the  extent  of  driving  you  away  from  home  most  of  the 
time,  and  I'm  frank  to  say  that  you  don't  contribute 
enough  to  my  life  to  give  me  a  great  amount  of 
inspiration." 

"Has  this  something  to  do  with  the  money  question  we 
are  discussing?"  he  demanded,  suspicious  for  the  first 
time. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "I  just  wondered  whether  you 
felt  as  I  did." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  be  free  so  that  you 
can  marry  some  one  else?" 

"  I  can't  imagine  such  a  thing.  You  can  take  a  chance 
on  anything  once,  you  know,  but  it's  your  own  fault  if 
you  make  the  second  mistake." 

"Well,"  he  said,  calming  down,  "if  you  have  serious 
thoughts  of  suggesting  a  separation,  you  had  better  talk 
some  more  with  'Poppy'  Amsden.  He  may  tell  you  a 
thing  or  two.  First  of  all,  you  have  to  have  some  grounds 
for  a  thing  of  that  sort,  and  being  bored  won't  go.  Now 
about  this  other  matter,  do  you  agree  to  an  equal  division 
of  the  income?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  do,  Vallie.  Suppose  I  instructed  Mr. 
Amsden  to  let  you  draw  twice  the  amount  papa  arranged 
for  you." 

"But  I've  had  more  than  that  these  last  five  years," 
he  protested  warmly. 

"Does  it  run  back  as  far  as  that?"  she  asked  mildly. 
"Then,  as  Mr.  Amsden  says,  I  think  I  have  been  foolishly 
generous." 

[1501 


THE    MOTH 


"It  isn't  a  question  of  generosity,"  Spencer  replied 
hotly;  "it's  my  right.  I'm  your  husband,  and  I  insist 
upon  being  treated  as  such." 

Lucy  sat  up  in  her  chair  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 
She  felt  a  new  strength  given  to  her,  though  she  knew  not 
whence  it  came.  She  had  not  intended  to  quarrel  with 
him.  She  had  been  quite  ready  to  concede  much  rather 
than  become  embroiled,  but  the  thoughts  which  had 
come  to  her  during  their  interview,  and  the  unexpected 
turn  it  had  taken,  led  to  the  least  expected  thing  of  all. 
Vallie's  last  words  touched  a  spring  which  released  an 
avalanche  of  feeling,  and  her  words  came  fast  and  self- 
marshalled  as  she  replied: 

"You  my  husband,  Vallie?"  she  exclaimed.  "What 
have  you  ever  given  me  in  token  of  it?  We  have  lived 
together  under  the  same  roof,  but  that  doesn't  make  you 
my  husband.  Our  lives  have  been  separate,  and  you  have 
given  me  of  yourself  only  when  no  more  attractive  alter- 
native offered.  You  have  left  me  alone  all  summer,  and 
today  the  only  reason  you  have  sought  me  out  is  to  get 
from  me  more  money  —  money  —  money.  After  having 
lived  all  these  years  on  my  generosity,  you  would  take 
it  all  if  you  could  get  it.  You  my  husband  —  and  de- 
manding rights!  I  am  the  one  who  should  demand.  I 
agree  to  nothing.  The  only  hold  I  have  on  you  at  all  is 
this  hateful  money,  and  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  give  it 
up.  If  what  papa  arranged  for  you  to  have  is  not  enough 
for  you  to  live  upon,  then  get  out  and  earn  some  more  as 
other  men  are  doing,  or  stay  at  home  which  is  still  less 
expensive.  I  am  tired  to  death  of  the  whole  thing.  I 
won't  talk  about  it  any  more,  so  that's  the  end  of  it." 

Spencer  was  completely  staggered  by  Lucy's  harangue. 
It  was  the  last  thing  he  had  expected,  and  he  had  sense 

[151] 


THE    MOTH 


enough  to  see  that  he  had  over-reached  himself.  If  she 
stood  by  her  ultimatum  his  position  was  serious,  for  in 
addition  to  the  amounts  he  had  drawn  there  was  still 
another  considerable  sum  accumulated  in  unpaid  bills, 
which  he  could  not  possibly  satisfy  with  only  his  regular 
allowance  to  depend  upon.  But  he  knew  Lucy,  and  this 
was  simply  another  of  her  momentary  whims.  He  would 
make  himself  agreeable  to  her  for  a  while  and  she  would 
then  become  reasonable.  But  it  was  not  wise  for  him 
to  retreat  too  openly,  or  his  motive  would  be  suspected. 
Lucy  was  prepared  for  an  angry  outburst,  but  instead 
he  assumed  a  dignity  of  which  she  had  not  supposed  him 
capable.  "You  do  me  a  great  injustice,"  was  all  he  said, 
as  he  turned  from  her  and  entered  the  house. 


[152] 


XVII 


THERE  were  reasons  beyond  that  which  Lucy  gave 
in  answer  to  her  own  inquiring  mind  to  explain  the 
difference  between  this  summer  and  others  which 
had  preceded  it.  First  of  all,  she  overlooked  the  fact 
that  the  merry  gatherings  at  the  Spencer  "cottage"  had  not 
merely  happened,  but  were  the  result  of  her  own  planning 
and  invitation.  Vallie  had  made  his  home  his  head- 
quarters for  entertaining,  and  while  the  groups  of  friends 
frequently  assembled  as  the  result  of  separate  invitations, 
and  each  group  found  its  enjoyment  in  its  own  peculiar 
way,  yet  there  was  a  mingling  which  tended  to  keep  the 
action  at  fever  heat  most  of  the  time.  Perhaps  the  fact 
that  Lucy  forswore  these  gay  experiences  this  summer  may 
have  had  something  to  do  with  Vallie's  change  of  base 
to  Eustis'  yacht;  but  whatever  the  occasion,  life  at  the 
"cottage"  had  certainly  assumed  a  deep  drab  hue. 

It  was  quite  true,  as  Lucy  said,  that  the  men  who  had 
flocked  about  her  at  other  times  missed  the  daring  cama- 
raderie which  they  had  come  to  associate  with  her  per- 
sonality. The  change  which  had  come  over  her  proved  a 
large  topic  of  conversation  among  the  men,  and  various 
reasons  were  assigned.  The  fact  that  Vallie  was  so  much 
away  from  home  suggested  certain  unpleasant  possibilities; 
the  persistent  rumor,  starting  none  knew  where,  that 

[153] 


THE    MOTH 


Cunningham  was  the  occasion  of  the  obvious  coolness 
between  husband  and  wife,  made  them  wonder  what  fire 
was  smouldering  to  warrant  so  much  smoke .  Even  Archie 
Reed,  usually  the  last  in  any  group  to  discover  the  real 
point,  recalled  the  fact  that  Lucy  had  made  a  pretext  not 
to  see  him  when  he  called,  and  he  now  became  convinced 
that  it  was  because  she  feared  to  give  Vallie  further 
cause  for  jealousy.  Yet  through  it  all  Lucy  was  not  with- 
out her  defenders,  but  the  consensus  of  opinion  among 
the  men  was  that  it  might  be  just  as  well  to  go  slowly 
as  a  safeguard  against  later  complications.  The  memory 
had  not  left  them  of  the  hasty  trip  abroad  which  Miller 
took  two  years  before,  just  because  he  happened  to  be 
with  another  attractive  little  woman  at  the  particular 
moment  when  her  husband's  jealousy  at  last  burst  forth. 
Of  course  the  real  man  in  the  case  was  finally  brought  to 
light,  but  it  was  a  bit  unpleasant  for  poor  Miller  to  receive 
the  first  force  of  the  storm  when  the  lady  in  question  had 
used  him  simply  as  a  buffer  to  protect  the  object  of  her 
affections.  To  a  certain  extent  Miller  had  lost  caste  with 
his  fellow-bachelors  for  his  lack  of  judgment,  and  no  one 
else  cared  to  run  the  risk  of  a  similar  fall  from  a  similar 
cause.  A  married  man  may  perhaps  be  forgiven  for  over- 
confidence  in  his  friendship  for  other  men's  wives,  but 
the  bachelor's  most  important  asset  is  his  ability  to 
discriminate. 

The  effect  of  this  discrimination  was  that  the  men  made 
no  advances  in  Lucy's  direction,  and  she  did  not  specific- 
ally invite  them.  Her  neighbors,  who  had  never  been 
too  neighborly,  joked  about  Mrs.  Chanuing's  reception 
at  the  Spencers',  but  the  vivid  account  given  by  that 
estimable  lady  to  her  friends  of  the  cigarettes,  cocktails, 
decollete  gowns,  and  lingerie  which  played  so  important 

[154] 


THE    MOTH 


a  part  on  that  memorable  occasion,  did  not  result  in 
adding  to  Lucy's  visiting  list.  The  men,  it  is  true,  on 
hearing  the  same  story,  pronounced  it  "a  rare  one," 
and  would  have  canonized  Lucy  on  the  spot.  That  was 
because  they  had  seen  Lucy  and  probably  preferred  the 
way  she  wore  her  hair  to  the  antique  mode  affected  by  Mrs. 
Channing;  but  while  the  men  on  the  North  Shore  may 
canonize,  they  may  not  make  up  the  visiting  lists. 

So,  with  slight  variations,  too  unimportant  to  change 
conditions,  Lucy's  only  visitors  were  Margaret,  Cunning- 
ham, and  Auchester.  Margaret  stuck  bravely  to  her  task, 
and  did  her  best  to  bring  Lucy  and  the  children  together, 
but  as  time  went  on  without  accomplishing  the  desired 
result  she  wondered  at  the  lack  of  motherly  instinct  which 
was  really  the  only  obstructing  element.  The  children 
sensed  this  lack  though  they  could  not  have  explained  it, 
and  Lucy,  comprehending  just  as  little,  lost  heart  and 
courage  in  the  face  of  constant  rebuffs.  At  first  Margaret 
thought  it  due  to  selfishness,  but  when  she  discovered  how 
miserable  Lucy  was,  and  how  desperately  she  tried  to 
advance  her  misconceived  and  misdirected  plans,  it  be- 
came only  too  evident  that  the  mistakes  were  due  to  a 
lack  of  knowing  how. 

Who  can  tell  a  mother  how  to  love  her  child?  If  the 
first  spark  of  life  —  that  electric  message  from  the  Al- 
mighty Father  that  he  has  granted  woman  a  share  in  His 
immortal  work  —  fails  to  enkindle  in  the  mother  heart  the 
flame  which  illumines  all  the  world,  more  could  scarcely 
be  expected  from  human  agency.  Margaret  lost  patience 
often,  but  as  often  was  filled  with  pity  for  the  struggling, 
suffering  spirit,  beating  its  bruised  wings  against  imagi- 
nary bars,  its  heart  aching  for  something  to  relieve  its  pain, 
when  all  the  time  salvation  lay  near  at  hand,  obscured  only 

[  155  ] 


THE    MOTH 


by  the  scales  which  covered  the  searching  eyes !  Margaret 
fully  shared  her  husband's  belief  that  the  children  were 
Lucy's  only  avenue  of  escape,  and  it  seemed  to  her  so 
obvious  that  she  did  not  sense  the  necessity  of  supplying 
Lucy  with  some  alternative  to  serve  as  anchorage  until  the 
missing  buoy  be  found. 

When  Cunningham  was  prevented  from  going  to  her, 
either  with  Margaret  or  alone,  Lucy,  unable  to  endure 
her  loneliness,  did  not  hesitate  to  go  to  him.  In  fact  there 
was  little  which  happened  which  she  did  not  confide. 
He  was  uncomfortable  about  her  frequent  calls  at  his 
office,  yet  he  realized  that  this  was  an  outlet  for  her 
pent-up  thoughts,  and  it  was  safer  for  her  to  express  these 
to  him  than  to  any  one  else.  Thus  he  came  to  know  of  the 
situation  with  Vallie,  and  the  stand  which  she  took  regard- 
ing his  drafts  upon  her  estate  encouraged  him  to  believe 
that  the  womanhood  which  he  was  sure  existed  was  really 
there,  and  would  eventually  come  to  the  surface.  What 
Margaret  told  him  of  her  own  experiences  was  discourag- 
ing, what  he  himself  saw  would  have  made  another  man 
wonder  if  his  advice  had  not  been  wrong;  but  with  Cun- 
ningham a  situation  which  was  logically  correct  could  not 
contain  an  error.  So  he  comforted  and  encouraged  her 
as  best  he  could;  told  her  that  her  suggestion  of  separation 
was  all  right  to  frighten  Vallie  into  good  behavior,  but 
was  not  to  be  seriously  considered  for  a  moment;  urged 
her  to  gather  around  herself  certain  of  the  friends  whom 
she  had  enjoyed,  and  to  lead  with  them  a  rational  ex- 
istence; and,  particularly,  to  train  herself  to  a  better 
understanding  of  her  children. 

If  Cunningham  noticed  the  curious  omission  of  all 
reference  to  Auchester  in  the  confidence  Lucy  gave  him, 
he  did  not  mention  it.  He  may  have  thought  it  unwise  to 

[156] 


THE    MOTH 


suggest  a  name  which  in  his  heart  he  hoped  had  been 
forgotten.  Lucy  was  conscious  of  the  fact,  and  she  thought 
a  good  deal  about  it.  There  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  avoid  mentioning  the  Captain,  yet  she  did  avoid 
it.  Perhaps  she  feared  Cunningham  would  insist  upon  her 
giving  up  what  had  really  become  her  only  relief.  She 
had  sacrificed  already  more  than  Ned  had  any  right  to 
ask,  yet  she  knew  in  her  heart  that  if  he  insisted  upon  it  she 
would  also  give  up  Auchester.  It  was  all  too  paradoxical 
for  her  to  comprehend.  Both  men  were  friends,  one  of 
whom  held  her  back  from  living  her  own  life,  the  other 
encouraged  her  to  be  herself  and  contributed  to  such 
happiness  as  now  remained  to  her.  Cunningham  con- 
tributed nothing  but  advice,  and  hateful  advice  at  that. 
She  was  under  no  obligation  to  either.  Yet  —  and  this 
was  the  curious  part  of  it  —  she  could  not  get  Cunningham 
out  of  her  mind  whenever  Auchester  was  with  her.  Try 
as  she  would  to  throw  herself  wholly  into  the  enjoyment 
of  the  Captain's  companionship,  there  sat  the  ghost, 
Banquo-like,  urging  her  not  to  be  herself. 

Auchester  was  conscious  of  the  restraint  but  he  was 
by  no  means  discouraged.  The  change  in  Lucy's  attitude 
had  come  over  her  during  their  brief  acquaintanceship, 
and  it  had  answered  a  question  that  at  first  had  puzzled 
him:  she  was  a  woman  of  character,  and  the  unconven- 
tionality  which  he  had  admired  and  yet  questioned  was 
not  the  result  of  loose  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  but  rather 
a  confidence  in  her  strength  to  be  her  own  judge  between 
the  two  elements.  This  other  influence,  which  he  now 
knew  was  Cunningham,  was  striving,  from  motives  which 
the  Captain  could  not  comprehend,  to  force  Lucy  back 
into  the  ranks  of  those  not  strong  enough  to  think  for 
themselves,  for  in  Auchester's  mind  it  was  an  admission 

[157] 


THE    MOTH 


of  weakness  to  allow  the  world  to  make  so  vital  a  decision. 
The  influence  was  powerful,  yet  it  caused  him  no  anxiety 
after  he  discovered  what  kind  of  man  Cunningham  was. 
Sometime  he  would  also  discover  what  prompted  this 
apparently  disinterested  friend;  but  in  the  meanwhile 
Auchester  contented  himself  with  the  opportunities  Lucy 
afforded  him  to  supply  the  antidote.  Whenever  he  was  with 
her  he  skilfully  led  the  conversation  into  channels  which 
bore  upon  the  subject  he  had  most  at  heart,  and  he  knew 
that  the  very  influence  exercised  by  Cunningham  made 
Lucy  the  more  susceptible  to  his  views. 

Auchester  was  not  a  psychologist,  but  he  found  exquisite 
pleasure  in  studying  the  personality  of  the  woman  who 
had  come  so  unexpectedly  yet  so  strongly  into  his  life. 
He  experienced,  with  her,  the  pain  sensations  and  the 
pleasure  sensations  as  they  became  fused,  and  gradually 
shaped  themselves  into  a  well-defined  personality.  It 
gave  him  joy  to  realize  that  in  this  way  she  was  already  a 
part  of  him  and  he  of  her,  and  that  he  knew  her  better 
than  any  one  else, — even  better  than  she  herself.  He  made 
himself  a  part  of  each  passing  mood,  crystallized  into  words 
half-thoughts  which  she  could  not  have  expressed,  antici- 
pated her  intuitions,  and  explained  her  dreamy  vagaries. 
The  psychologist  would  have  felt  it  necessary  to  analyze 
these  expressions  of  will  and  emotion,  and  to  decompose 
them  into  their  separate  elements ;  Auchester  was  content 
to  feel  them  without  analysis,  to  accept  them  with  no 
other  explanation  than  that  they  formed  a  part  of  the 
personality  which  he  loved  with  an  intensity  character- 
istic of  himself. 

Lucy  talked  as  freely  with  him  about  Vallie  as  she  did 
with  Cunningham,  except  that  she  made  no  reference  to 
the  money  complication.  She  would  have  thought  this 

[158] 


THE    MOTH 


an  evidence  of  bad  taste;  but  the  intimate  way  in  which 
Auchester  had  been  a  part  of  one  side  of  Vallie's  degrada- 
tion made  her  feel  that  it  was  perfectly  natural  for  her  to 
express  her  exact  feelings  toward  her  husband.  It  would 
be  absurd  to  attempt  any  concealment  after  what  he  had 
seen  that  night.  She  even  thought  that  she  talked  im- 
personally about  it,  and  the  Captain  never  took  advantage 
of  what  she  said.  He  kept  insisting  upon  the  inalienable 
right  which  every  person  had  to  live  his  own  life,  it  is  true; 
he  repeated  his  own  convictions  that  marriage  automat- 
ically ceased  to  exist  as  an  institution  the  moment  love 
failed  to  control ;  he  insisted  that  she  owed  it  to  herself  to 
rectify  any  early  mistake  she  might  have  made  in  this 
respect  wrhen  the  right  time  came :  but  he  made  no  personal 
application,  so  must  have  been  discussing  it  as  an  abstruse 
question.  He  never  made  love  to  her  or  suggested  that 
their  relations  were  other  than  those  which  should  exist 
between  the  best  of  friends,  —  and  in  her  heart  she 
thanked  God  for  this  friendship. 

Yet  against  his  arguments  and  ideas  were  those  of 
Cunningham's,  which  she  could  not  disassociate.  The 
moments  of  exhilaration  after  visits  with  Auchester  were 
followed  by  depression  which  more  than  offset  the  relief 
she  believed  that  she  had  found.  She  lost  patience  with 
herself.  She  was  weak  and  unsubstantial.  She  allowed 
herself  to  be  influenced  beyond  reason,  and  had  reached 
a  point  where  her  own  personality  had  become  negative. 
Vallie  was  the  only  one  she  could  stand  up  against  now. 
With  Cunningham  or  with  Auchester  she  simply  reflected 
what  they  were.  She  must  make  a  stand  against  herself. 
She  would  take  the  best  which  Cunningham  had  given 
her  and  the  best  which  she  had  assimilated  from  Auchester, 
and  merging  this  with  what  she  knew  to  be  the  best  in 

[159] 


THE    MOTH 


herself  she  would  leave  the  vacillating  nonentity  Lucy 
Spencer  behind  her.  She  would  live  her  own  life  in  her 
own  way  in  spite  of  all:  that  much  of  what  the  Captain 
said  at  all  events  was  wise;  she  would  show  Cunningham 
and  Vallie  and  the  world  that  she  was  a  real  person  after 
all.  The  experiences  she  had  passed  through  would  help 
her:  she  had  learned  to  control  her  impulses,  but  she  would 
not  kill  them.  They  had  never  injured  any  one,  she 
repeated  over  and  over  again,  —  why  should  Ned  be  so 
severe  upon  her? 


[160] 


XVIII 


VALLIE  found  her  in  this  unusual  state  when  he 
unexpectedly    returned    to    the    house    on    this 
particular  evening.    He  was  not  certain  whether 
it  presaged  well  or  ill  to  his  own  affairs,  but  the  time 
was  near  at  hand  when  matters  must  again  be  discussed. 
And  as  he  had  heard  her  say  that  one  can  always  take  a 
chance  once,  he  decided  to  take  that  chance. 

He  came  down  to  dinner  dressed  in  the  pink  of  perfec- 
tion. He  had  been  to  the  city  for  the  first  time  in  a  week, 
and  because  of  this  Lucy  was  prepared  for  an  unusually 
disagreeable  time  when  she  saw  him  appear.  In  fact  she 
had  hoped  that  he  would  dine  anywhere  except  at  home, 
for  she  was  in  a  mood  so  different  from  that  which  had 
obsessed  her  during  the  past  few  weeks  that  she  resented 
any  possibility  of  being  forced  back  into  the  depths. 
Valentine  was  obviously  uncomfortable  and  dusty  when 
he  returned,  but  at  dinner  time  he  blossomed  forth  like 
the  rose.  From  his  immaculate  white  dinner  jacket  and 
soft  tucked  shirt  to  the  tip  of  his  shiny  pump  he  was  a 
picture  of  luxurious  undress.  Lucy  regarded  him  in  sur- 
prise and  admiration:  surprise,  for  it  had  been  months 
since  he  had  so  honored  her;  admiration  for  the  smartness 
of  the  man's  appearance.  As  she  once  said,  "Vallie  is 
such  a  good  looking  boy  if  you  only  see  his  clothes.''  He 
11  [  161  ] 


THE    MOTH 


was  conscious  of  the  impression  he  made  and  enjoyed  it, 
but  to  prevent  any  suspicion  of  this  from  entering  Lucy's 
head  he  pulled  a  lavender  silk  handkerchief  from  his  coat 
sleeve  and  nonchalantly  flecked  at  an  imaginary  speck 
upon  his  foot.  She  watched  him  as  he  drew  a  chair 
beside  hers  and  seated  himself.  Then,  at  length,  their 
eyes  met  and  both  smiled. 

"Who's  coming?"  Lucy  asked. 

"No  one,"  he  replied,  with  a  fairly  successful  attempt 
to  look  surprised  at  the  question,  —  "why?" 

"You're  staying  home,  and  you're  doing  the  double- 
edge  for  the  family." 

"Oh!"  Spencer  articulated,  rising  and  standing  in 
front  of  her.  "Do  you  like  it?" 

"Stunning,"  she  replied;   "did  you  just  get  it?" 

"Yes;  the  tailor  was  disagreeable  about  my  overdue 
account,  and  I  could  only  pacify  him  by  ordering  another 
suit." 

"Anything  that  looks  as  well  as  that  is  an  absolute 
necessity.  And  you're  really  going  to  stay  home  and  have 
dinner  just  with  me?  "  Lucy  was  still  incredulous. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  magnanimously;  "might  go 
further  and  fare  worse." 

Her  mood  of  the  moment  was  such  that  it  did  not  de- 
mand explanations.  She  felt  that  today  she  had  broken 
the  bonds  of  servitude,  and  it  seemed  natural  that  all 
around  her,  without  knowing  the  mental  process  which 
had  produced  her  metamorphosis,  should  feel  the  change 
in  temperature.  In  the  past  it  had  not  been  necessary 
for  her  to  cry  out  for  companionship;  that  sad  condition 
had  come  only  since  she  had  tried  to  live  her  life  some  one 
else's  way.  Now  she  was  herself  again,  and  the  first 
result  was  that  her  husband  was  at  her  feet. 

[162] 


THE    MOTH 


She  smiled  contentedly.  "This  shows  how  foolish 
premonitions  are,"  she  said.  "Every  time,  lately,  when 
I  have  begun  to  feel  happy,  something  has  occurred  to 
give  me  a  worse  fit  of  the  blues  than  the  last.  I  was  sure 
it  was  going  to  happen  again  tonight." 

"I've  been  in  the  dumps  myself  all  summer."  Vallie 
consoled  her  by  sharing  the  common  cause.  "It  hasn't 
been  exactly  a  screamer,  has  it?" 

"Beastly!"  she  said  emphatically.  "You've  been  gay 
enough,  but  mine  has  been  a  lingering  death.  I  don't 
see  wrhy  you  should  have  been  down." 

"Debts,"  he  answered  briefly. 

"But  Vallie— " 

"Dinner  is  served,"  the  maid  announced. 

They  rose  mechanically  and  moved  toward  the  dining- 
room.  Affairs  were  happening  well  for  Spencer,  and  he 
blessed  the  maid  for  timing  her  appearance  so  opportunely. 

"Let  me  mix  you  a  new  cocktail,"  he  volunteered; 
"it's  a  great  one  for  a  warm  night." 

Lucy  had  told  Mrs.  Charming  that  her  husband  could 
mix  cocktails  in  three  different  languages,  but  this  was  a 
fourth,  or  more  properly  speaking  a  dialect.  She  watched 
him  deftly  turn  the  demijohn  of  Jamaica  rum  into  the 
crotch  of  his  arm,  and  pour  from  it  into  the  silver  shaker. 
Then  he  dropped  in  a  lime,  "just  to  cut  it"  as  he  explained, 
and  completed  the  mixture  from  the  bottle  of  Italian 
vermouth. 

"There!"  he  exclaimed,  quite  in  his  element  as  he  paused 
after  a  vigorous  shaking;  "that  is  straight  from  the 
tropics.  One  of  the  boys  was  cruising  down  there  and  he 
brought  me  this  demijohn  and  the  receipt." 

"What  do  you  call  it?"  Lucy  asked,  tasting  it  with  a 
degree  of  suspicion.  "My!  but  it  is  good!" 

[163] 


THE    MOTH 


"Swizzle,"  Vallie  replied;  "down  there  they  mix  it  up 
with  a  stick  they  call  swizzle." 

"It's  better  than  its  name,"  she  laughed;  "but  one 
goes  a  long  ways,  doesn't  it?" 

The  dinner  was  a  joy  to  Lucy.  She  could  not  remember 
when  he  had  been  such  good  company,  or  when  she  had 
before  so  enjoyed  being  alone  with  him.  It  brought  back 
earlier  days  when  each  had  been  more  dependent  upon  the 
other,  before  their  paths  had  verged  so  far  apart.  They 
talked  about  it,  and  as  they  touched  upon  the  subject  mem- 
ory released  the  flood-gates  of  the  past,  allowing  the  events, 
great  and  small,  to  marshal  themselves  before  them  in 
happy  array.  Curiously  enough  they  were  all  pleasant 
happenings,  such  being  the  natural  optimism  of  the  heart, 
which  even  after  wretched  abuse  breaks  from  its  leash 
in  quick  response  to  the  faintest  call  to  happiness.  They 
talked  of  the  children,  a  topic  rarely  referred  to  be- 
tween them  except  by  way  of  criticism,  but  it  was 
Lucy  who  suggested  the  subject.  Jealous  of  each 
moment  and  fearful  lest  the  spell  be  broken,  she  had 
the  coffee  and  cigarettes  served  at  the  table,  and  the 
conversation  continued,  the  calm  contentment  being 
punctuated  by  merry  laughter  which  made  her  feel  and 
seem  like  the  young,  carefree  girl  Vallie  had  first  met 
ten  years  before. 

But  all  dreams  must  end,  and  Lucy  sighed  as  they  finally 
rose  from  the  table.  She  slipped  her  arm  through  his  as 
they  passed  out  upon  the  broad  piazza,  strolling  leisurely 
up  and  down,  watching  the  brilliant  stellar  display  above 
and  listening  to  the  peaceful  lapping  of  the  water  on  the 
shore  below  them.  Cunningham  and  his  quiet,  forceful 
domination  over  her  was  forgotten;  Auchester  with  his 
fascinating  personality  was  far  away  from  Lucy's  thoughts: 

[164J 


THE    MOTH 


now  she  had  no  need  of  Ned's  watchful,  friendly  care,  and 
the  Captain's  philosophy  appealed  to  her  only  in  times  of 
stress.  Up  and  down  the  piazza  she  walked  in  silence 
with  her  husband,  he  watching  for  an  opportunity  to 
make  his  final  appeal,  she  quite  satisfied  to  have  this 
quiet  communion  continue  forever. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  this  suit,"  Vallie  said  at  length, 
feeling  that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  speak,  and  being 
able  to  think  of  no  less  commonplace  remark  with  which 
to  accomplish  his  purpose. 

"I  do  like  it,"  Lucy  replied,  pausing  in  her  steps  and 
drawing  back  to  look  at  it  again.  "You  are  very  smart 
in  it.  White  is  wonderful  for  summer." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted,  as  they  resumed  their  walk  and 
Lucy  again  lapsed  into  silence.  This  subject  was  evidently 
not  sufficiently  prolific  to  start  a  general  conversation, 
so  Spencer  tried  again. 

"You  were  asking  me  why  I  had  been  so  blue  this 
summer  — 

Lucy  laughed.  "First  it's  white  and  then  it's  blue,  — 
let's  talk  of  something  red,  and  be  patriotic!" 

"But  I'm  serious,"  he  protested.  "I've  been  awfully 
upset  all  summer.  Everybody  rooks  me." 

"You've  stuck  to  it  pretty  close  for  a  game  you  didn't 
like." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  crowd  I've  been  with,"  Vallie 
explained.  "They're  all  right;  but  it's  the  other  people, 
—  the  ones  I  owe  money  to." 

Lucy  saw  that  he  was  determined  to  revive  the  topic 
which  the  call  to  dinner  had  interrupted,  and  which  she 
hoped  he  would  forget.  It  was  really  too  bad  to  have  so 
great  a  drop  from  the  heights  to  which  this  touch  of  joy 
had  carried  her. 

[165] 


THE    MOTH 


"Let's  not  talk  about  money  tonight,  Vallie,"  she  urged; 
"I'm  too  happy." 

"But  I  must,"  he  insisted;  "that's  what  I  stayed  home 
for." 

She  stopped  short  as  the  words  cut  into  her  heart. 
This  was  the  explanation  of  his  suave  good  nature  and 
his  indulgent  companionship!  What  she  had  believed 
was  a  breath  of  life  was  filled  with  pestilence,  loaded  down 
with  the  malignant  bacilli  which  destroy  the  soul.  She 
looked  at  him  again,  but  it  was  not  the  smart  white  suit 
which  she  saw  now:  it  was  the  final  disintegration  of 
those  elements  which  went  to  make  up  the  man.  In  that 
brief  moment,  intensified  by  the  hopefulness  of  the  hour 
just  passed,  she  realized  how  full  life  is  of  mockery.  He 
had  been  biding  his  time,  counting  upon  her  weakness  and 
her  generosity,  acting  a  part  which  she  in  her  simplicity 
might  never  have  recognized  except  for  the  unexpected 
frankness  which  truth  had  forced  to  his  lips!  She  felt 
as  if  the  air  had  suddenly  become  chilled,  and  a  weakness 
seized  her  body. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  she  said,  again  resting  her  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

All  unconscious  of  the  effect  his  words  had  produced, 
Vallie  led  her  to  a  chair  and  drew  his  own  close  beside  it. 
"You  see,"  he  began  confidently,  "I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  fix. 
You've  always  been  a  good  sport,  and  I  know  you'll 
help  me  out." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  weakly;  "I  see." 

"There  are  a  whole  lot  of  debts.  I  can't  possibly  meet 
them,  and  the  people  are  getting  nasty  about  it." 

"Mr.  Amsden  says  you've  drawn  far  greater  amounts 
lately  than  ever  before.  How  can  you  be  so  much  in 
debt?" 

[166] 


THE    MOTH 


"You're  not  going  to  question  me,  are  you?"  he 
demanded. 

"I'm  only  trying  to  understand." 

"But  you  don't  have  to  understand,"  Vallie  explained. 
"I  really  don't  understand  myself.  Isn't  it  plain  enough 
if  I  tell  you  that  it's  so?" 

"Perhaps  it  ought  to  be,"  Lucy  answered;  "but  it 
seems  to  me  that  at  least  one  of  us  should  understand." 

"That's  because  you're  a  woman,"  he  said  cheerfully. 
"I  don't  want  to  bore  you  with  the  details  of  this  thing 
that  has  been  making  me  down  sick.  There  is  no  use  in 
that." 

"Just  what  do  you  want,  Vallie?" 

"I  want  to  draw  ten  thousand  dollars  tomorrow  and 
square  things  up,  and  then  say  two  thousand  a  month." 

"Ten  thousand  in  debt  after  all  you've  had  lately!" 
Lucy  exclaimed.  "Where  has  it  gone?" 

"Now  you're  questioning  me  again,"  he  said  stiffly. 

Lucy's  eyes  looked  far  away  out  into  the  dark  expanse 
of  water,  lighted  only  by  the  flickering  of  the  stars.  She 
had  been  happy  for  a  little  moment,  and  the  return  to 
realities  was  just  that  much  the  more  cruel. 

"Will  you  do  it?"  Spencer  demanded  at  length. 

"What  are  you  going  to  give  me  in  exchange?" 

He  did  not  comprehend.  "What  do  you  mean?  Is 
there  something  you  want  to  trade?" 

"In  exchange  for  what  you  ask  is  there  anything  which 
occurs  to  you  as  my  right?"  she  continued,  trying  to  be 
clear. 

"Your  right?"  he  repeated  after  her  "What  in  the 
world  do  you  want  that  you  haven't  got?" 

Lucy  looked  at  him  sadly.    "  Can  you  think  of  nothing?  " 

"Nothing,"  he  answered  firmly. 
[167] 


THE    MOTH 


"Do  you  owe  me  nothing  of  yourself?" 

"  So  that's  what  you  mean !  You'd  like  to  have  me  stick 
around  the  house.  That  would  be  a  note!  Tied  to  your 
wife's  apron  strings!" 

"Do  you  owe  me  nothing  of  yourself,"  she  repeated, 
"even  when  you  are  away  from  home?" 

Vallie  looked  at  her  quickly,  but  was  satisfied  that  she 
had  only  accidentally  touched  so  near  the  mark.  "I'm 
not  good  at  guessing  puzzles.  Why  don't  you  talk  so 
that  I  can  understand?  Aren't  you  satisfied?  You  always 
have  been  before." 

"Yes,  but  we're  growing  older,  Vallie;  and  the  children 
are  getting  to  the  point  where  they  will  notice  how  little 
their  parents  mean  to  each  other.  I'm  only  trying  to  find 
out  just  where  we  stand.  Tell  me,  am  I  anything  more 
to  you  than  a  bank  account?" 

"A  bank  account  isn't  of  much  value  when  it's  over- 
drawn," he  said  feelingly. 

"Then  if  I  fail  in  my  capacity  of  banker,  your  last 
interest  in  me  is  destroyed.  Is  that  it?" 

"That's  a  nasty  way  to  put  it." 

"But  it's  true,  isn't  it?" 

"I  don't  say  it  is;  but  I  simply  must  have  the  money. 
Will  you  fix  Amsden  so  that  I  can  get  it?" 

•"No,  Vallie,  I  will  not,"  Lucy  replied  firmly. 

He  rose  impatiently  with  a  muttered  imprecation  and 
stalked  off  into  the  shadow  of  the  piazza,  returning  in  a 
belligerent  mood.  He  stood  before  her  chair  staring  at 
her  sternly.  Then  he  said:  "Do  you  mean  that?" 

"Absolutely.  If  you've  been  such  a  fool  as  to  get  into 
trouble  after  having  had  all  that  money,  you  may  get 
out  of  it  as  best  you  can." 

Vallie  was  angry  through  and  through,  but  his  position 
[168] 


was  so  precarious  that  he  dared  not  indulge  in  the  luxury 
of  giving  way.  Surely  he  could  make  her  yield.  He 
would  shame  her  into  it:  "You've  never  been  a  tightwad 
before,  Lucy,"  he  pleaded.  "I  didn't  know  you  had  a 
pocket  nerve,  and  I  won't  believe  it  now." 

"You'll  have  to  believe  it,  —  call  it  what  you  will. 
An  hour  ago  you  could  have  had  anything  you  wished. 
I  believed  there  was  something  left  in  you  after  all. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  I  wanted  to  find  it  that  I  was  so 
easily  deceived.  Now  I've  reached  my  limit.  Keep  on 
going  your  way  and  I'll  go  mine,  —  and  it  will  be  mine, 
too."  / 

Lucy  rose,  even  more  consumed  with  anger  than  Vallie 
because  of  her  power  to  feel  more  deeply.  She  started 
for  the  door,  intuitively  realizing  that  if  she  could 
reach  her  own  room  and  indulge  herself  in  a  flood  of 
tears  it  would  be  a  real  relief.  Vallie  understood  her 
action. 

"If  you  stick  to  that,  Lucy,  you  will  drive  me  to  do 
something  desperate,"  he  said,  still  holding  himself  in. 

"You  haven't  courage  enough  nor  manhood  enough  to 
do  anything  but  threaten,"  she  retorted,  turning  with 
her  hand  upon  the  screen  door.  "I  wish  I  thought  you 
had." 

"Haven't  courage  enough!"  he  demanded  sullenly, 
taking  a  quick  step  forward  and  grasping  her  wrist.  "You 
had  better  be  careful,  —  you  don't  know  how  desperate 
I  am." 

Lucy  felt  her  nature  change  in  an  instant  as  his  grip 
tightened,  and  she  drew  herself  to  her  full  height  with  an 
expression  of  disgust  which  she  now  made  no  effort  to 
conceal. 

"Trying  to  break  into  the  bank?"  she  asked  coldly. 
[169] 


THE    MOTH 


"Do  you  think  this  will  persuade  me  to  change  my  mind? 
You  —  my  husband!   God  pity  me!" 

With  a  fling  of  her  arm  she  released  herself,  and  the 
door  slammed  as  she  turned  into  the  house.  Then  a 
swish  of  skirts  and  the  slam  of  the  door  upstairs  announced 
that  the  refugee  had  found  her  haven  of  rest. 


[170] 


XIX 


IT  did  not  occur  to  Spencer,  as  he  stood  there  angry 
in  his  indecision,  that  he  was  other  than  a  deeply 
injured  man.  There  is  perhaps  no  more  confusing 
element  which  can  befog  the  view  of  one's  own  conduct 
than  a  belief  that  existing  conditions  justify  an  attitude. 
In  the  present  instance  Lucy  was  herself  partly  to  blame, 
for  it  had  only  been  recently  that  she  had  appeared  to 
take  notice,  much  less  to  take  exception  to  his  manner  of 
living;  yet  had  he  completed  his  analysis  Spencer  would 
have  been  forced  to  admit  that  this  very  manner  of  living 
was  not  now  the  same  as  that  which  she  had  previously 
accepted.  The  point  was  that  he  did  not  believe  she 
realized  that  any  change  had  taken  place.  Accepting 
this  assumption  as  fact,  he  considered  her  action  as  selfish 
beyond  belief,  and  her  contempt  as  unwarranted  by  any- 
thing which  he  had  said  or  done.  She  had  the  money  and 
he  needed  it.  "An  hour  ago  you  could  have  had  anything 
you  wished,"  she  had  told  him,  and  this  was  conclusive 
evidence  that  her  later  denial  was  simply  the  expression 
of  one  of  her  many  whims,  to  which  he  had  been  subjected 
during  the  whole  of  his  married  life.  If  she  chose  she  could 
easily  relieve  the  pressure  upon  him,  but  now  she  did  not 
choose.  What  she  said  about  her  "rights"  amused  him; 
but  that  of  course  was  only  another  of  her  many  vagaries. 

[171] 


THE    MOTH 


When  a  woman  does  exactly  what  she  pleases  she  cer- 
tainly cannot  complain  that  her  "rights"  have  been 
invaded ! 

So  the  idea  and  the  excuse  in  Spencer's  mind  grew  to 
unusual  proportions,  giving  him  a  driving  force  of  action. 
Just  whither  this  would  take  him  was  not  clear  as  yet, 
but  the  real  goad  of  his  financial  necessity  lost  itself  in 
the  idea  that  he  was  fighting  as  a  martyr  for  a  principle. 
Long  after  Lucy's  flight  up  stairs  he  tried  to  crystallize 
the  idea,  but  he  was  demanding  of  himself  too  much:  it 
was  a  sufficient  mental  strain  to  conceive  it.  But  the 
crystallization  would  come,  he  felt  confident.  The  driv- 
ing force  was  too  strong  within  him  not  to  bear  fruit 
so  soon  as  circumstances  combined  to  produce  the 
opportunity. 

He  prepared  for  his  departure  in  better  spirits  than 
might  have  been  expected,  leaving  word  that  he  did  not 
know  when  he  would  return.  He  hardly  expected  this 
to  cause  any  particular  consternation,  as  he  had  been  so 
much  away  from  home  this  summer,  but  at  least  it  would 
indicate  his  displeasure.  He  knew  that  at  Marblehead 
he  could  find  diversion,  and  it  was  necessary  now  to  wait 
in  order  to  give  things  a  chance  to  happen.  Surely  it  was 
the  act  of  judgment  to  pass  the  waiting  time  as  agreeably 
as  possible. 

As  he  heard  the  automobile  drive  up  to  the  porte- 
cochere  he  walked  to  the  steps  to  meet  it,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  Margaret  Cunningham  in  the  tonneau. 
She  too  was  surprised,  for  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
seen  him  for  months,  and  she  had  expected  again  to  find 
Lucy  by  herself. 

"Were  you  looking  for  some  one  else?"  Margaret  asked, 
noting  his  expression  as  he  greeted  her. 

[172] 


THE    MOTH 


"No,"  he  hastened  to  explain;  "I  thought  it  was  my 
car.  I  was  just  going  over  to  the  club." 

"Don't  you  want  Eric  to  drive  you  over?  Lucy  is  at 
home,  I  suppose?" 

"No  and  yes,"  he  replied  to  the  double  question. 
"There's  my  car  just  coming  up,  —  and  Lucy  is  at  home. 
She's  in  a  beastly  humor." 

Margaret  laughed  as  she  stepped  on  the  piazza.  "I 
don't  believe  she'll  bite  me.  Where  is  she,  up  stairs?" 

"Yes,  with  the  door  barricaded." 

"This  is  serious,"  Margaret  laughed  again.  "I  hope  I 
haven't  broken  into  a  pleasant  little  family  party.  Shall 
I  go  home?" 

"She'll  be  all  right  with  you,"  Spencer  reassured  her. 
"It's  the  most  curious  thing  how  unreasonable  women 
are." 

"Careful!"  Margaret  cautioned.  "You're  including  me 
in  that  category !  Are  men  the  only  ones  entitled  to  wear 
halos?" 

Spencer  did  not  reply  to  her  bantering  question  because 
he  was  at  that  moment  seized  with  an  inspiration.  Per- 
haps this  was  one  of  the  things  he  was  waiting  to  give 
a  chance  to  happen.  He  looked  at  her  inquiringly: 
"Would  you  mind  having  a  little  chat  with  me  before 
you  see  Lucy?" 

"Why,  no,"  she  replied,  concealing  her  surprise  at  the 
request  and  following  him  to  the  two  chairs  where  he 
and  his  wife  had  recently  been  seated.  "  I  don't  remember 
ever  having  so  long  a  visit  with  you  before." 

Spencer  lost  no  time  in  getting  down  to  his  subject. 
"You're  so  intimate  with  Lucy  that  we  don't  need  to 
mince  matters,"  he  began,  "and  she'll  take  a  whole  lot 
more  from  you  than  she  will  from  me.  I  won't  say  any- 

[173} 


THE    MOTH 


thing  about  my  side  of  the  case,  but  some  one  ought  to 
point  out  to  her  that  every  case  has  two  sides.  I'm  not 
a  saint,  and  no  doubt  I've  given  her  plenty  to  object  to, 
as  is  the  case  with  most  husbands,  but  when  a  fellow  comes 
to  a  realization  of  it  and  tries  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  it's 
tough  to  have  his  motives  all  misunderstood  and  be 
trampled  on  as  if  he  was  a  nobody.  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

"I  have  no  doubt  about  it,"  Margaret  replied  to  his 
appeal. 

Spencer  was  wonderfully  encouraged.  If  Lucy  would 
only  listen  to  him  like  this  instead  of  becoming  so  excited 
over  the  simplest  statements !  "  I  knew  you  would  agree 
with  me,"  he  continued,  "any  sensible  person  would, — 
but  Lucy  isn't  like  anybody  else — ' 

"Isn't  that  why  you  were  first  attracted  to  her?" 
Margaret  interrupted. 

"Perhaps  it  was,"  Spencer  admitted;  "but  lately  she 
has  carried  her  individuality  so  far  that  she  is  impos- 
sible. You  know  her  so  well  that  we  can  talk  perfectly 
frankly.  She  can't  see  anything  but  just  one  way,  and 
I  thought  that  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  —  for  her  sake, 
you  understand — pointing  out  to  her  that  every  one  must 
yield  something  in  order  to  be  fair  to  every  one  else." 

Spencer  felt  proud  of  his  presentation  of  the  case.  It 
was  the  longest  argumentative  conversation  he  could 
remember  to  have  held,  and  what  he  said  sounded 
good  to  him.  To  this  extent  the  new-born  driving  force 
was  to  be  credited,  but  the  result  of  what  he  heard  him- 
self say  was  to  strengthen  the  idea  which  by  this  time  gave 
him  full  justification. 

"That  is  a  splendid  basis  of  life  in  general,"  Margaret 
said  meditatively,  referring  to  his  last  words.  "Have 

[174] 


THE    MOTH 


you  persuaded  Lucy  that  you  are  prepared  to  live  up 
to  it?" 

"That's  just  the  point."  Spencer  was  wondering  how 
he  could  continue  the  conversation  upon  so  high  a  plane, 
and  Margaret  gave  him  the  escape  he  required.  "Lucy 
won't  see  it,  she  is  so  hopelessly  blinded  by  what  she  calls 
her  'rights.'"  He  laughed  lightly.  "Can  you  imagine 
any  one  as  free  as  she  is  talking  about  'rights '?  It  is  really 
too  ridiculous ! " 

Margaret  was  exceedingly  interested,  not  so  much  in 
what  Spencer  said  as  in  the  closer  knowledge  of  the  man 
which  the  conversation  gave  her.  She  could  easily  under- 
stand how  inadequately  he  measured  up  to  the  standard 
any  high-strung  woman  would  set  for  her  husband,  but 
since  Lucy  had  succeeded  in  living  with  him  as  long  as  this, 
it  might  not  be  a  foregone  conclusion  that  the  necessity 
of  the  end  had  as  yet  arrived.  Up  to  this  time  she  had 
known  Spencer  only  through  Ned's  description,  and  she 
had  accepted  her  husband's  estimate  that  Lucy  had  but 
the  children  to  look  to  as  far  as  her  future  home  life  was 
concerned.  Since  she  had  found  an  opportunity  to  formu- 
late her  ideas  at  first  hand,  she  was  not  sure  that  the  situ- 
ation was  so  desperate  after  all.  Spencer  spoke  fairly 
enough,  and  in  spite  of  his  obvious  limitations  his  appar- 
ently sincere  desire  to  have  matters  smoothed  out  was 
decidedly  a  point  in  his  favor.  This  might  be  her  mission 
after  all,  Margaret  reasoned,  and  the  thought  encouraged 
her  to  hear  all  which  he  had  to  say  with  patience  and 
sympathy. 

"Don't  tell  her  that  you  have  seen  me,"  he  urged  as 
they  both  rose  at  length  in  response  to  Margaret's  sugges- 
tion that  perhaps  she  had  better  go  to  Lucy.  "She 
wouldn't  listen  to  anything  if  she  knew  we  had  talked 

[1751 


THE    MOTH 


matters  over.  Now  I'll  go  on  to  Marblehead  and  leave 
her  in  your  hands.  You  are  very  good  to  have  listened 
to  me  so  patiently.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  talked  so 
freely,  but  I'm  sure  you  understand." 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  Margaret  said,  holding  out  her 
hand.  "Now  I'll  run  up  stairs." 

There  was  no  response  to  Margaret's  first  gentle  knock 
upon  the  door  to  the  chamber,  but  her  second  effort  was 
more  successful.  Curiosity  often  proves  more  potent 
than  force,  and  Lucy  was  mystified  by  the  unexpected 
intrusion.  She  knew  that  no  one  of  the  maids  would  come 
at  this  hour,  and  she  would  have  dismissed  from  her 
mind  any  idea  that  it  was  her  husband  as  the  wildest  of 
hallucinations.  In  the  dim  light  she  did  not  at  first 
recognize  Margaret,  but  the  voice  quickly  disclosed  the 
identity  of  the  visitor. 

"Do  you  want  to  be  alone,  —  or  shall  I  come  in?" 
Margaret  asked. 

"Oh,  come  in,"  Lucy  cried,  kissing  her.  "Of  course  I 
don't  want  to  be  alone;  I  hate  it." 

By  the  intensity  of  the  first  remark  Margaret  could 
easily  see  that  the  force  of  the  storm  was  not  yet  spent, 
but  with  a  woman's  intuition  she  sensed  that  the  calm 
would  come  more  naturally  through  confidences  than 
through  isolation. 

"I  would  go  down  on  the  piazza  with  you,  but  I'm  half- 
undressed,"  Lucy  apologized.  "  Shall  I  slip  something  on?  " 

"Let's  have  our  little  visit  right  here,"  Margaret  urged, 
seeing  that  she  preferred  it.  "Ned's  in  New  York,"  she 
explained,  settling  herself  comfortably  in  an  easy-chair. 
"I'm  going  to  pick  him  up  at  the  station  at  ten  o'clock, 
so  I  thought  I'd  have  an  early  dinner  and  motor  down  for 
a  chat  with  you  instead  of  staying  alone  at  home." 

[176] 


THE    MOTH 


"I'm  afraid  you'll  find  me  poor  company,"  Lucy 
apologized;  "but  you're  just  in  time  to  see  the  grand 
transformation. ' ' 

There  was  a  light  in  Lucy's  eye  which  warned  Margaret 
to  speak  carefully  and  to  move  cautiously.  The  words 
came  fast  and  there  was  a  hectic  excitement  which  evi- 
denced the  turmoil  within.  Margaret  was  not  as  familiar 
with  her  moods  as  Ned  was,  but  she  recognized  the  con- 
dition and  was  glad  to  have  happened  in  to  serve  as  a 
buffer  for  the  explosion  which  force  of  will  alone  held  back. 
Lucy  waited  for  no  questioning,  —  it  was  enough  to  have 
a  sympathetic  listener. 

"I  am  in  this  high  state  of  elation,"  she  continued, 
"because  I've  arrived  at  a  definite  conclusion;  and  that 
is  a  real  achievement  for  me." 

"It  is  for  any  one,"  Margaret  agreed,  feeling  the  neces- 
sity of  saying  something,  and  wondering  whither  the 
conversation  was  to  lead. 

"You're  just  in  time,"  she  repeated,  "to  see  a  new 
woman  rising  from  the  ashes  of  the  old,  —  what  do  they 
call  it?  —  phoenix,  that's  it.  I'm  a  phoenix." 

The  heightened  color  in  Lucy's  cheeks,  which  showed 
plainly  even  in  the  deepening  twilight;  the  carriage  of 
her  head,  proud  and  rebellious  in  its  angry  pose;  the 
imperious  manner  which  replaced  the  usual  unconvincing 
but  appealing  vivacity;  the  dominant  note  in  the  voice, 
—  all  gave  force  to  the  statement  she  made.  She  was 
already  a  new  woman,  different  from  the  one  Margaret 
had  known,  yet  even  this  knowledge  was  not  sufficient 
to  explain  the  occasion  of  the  change  nor  the  climax  to 
which  it  might  lead. 

Lucy's  excitement  was  too  intense  to  permit  her  to  sit 
still,    and    her   companion's   sympathy   too   strong   and 
12  [  177  ] 


THE    MOTH 


understanding  to  break  in  upon  her  mood  until  it  had  spent 
itself.  The  tears  were  close  to  the  surface,  and  Margaret 
would  have  been  relieved  to  have  the  unnatural  strain 
give  way.  For  a  moment  Lucy  leaned  against  the  French 
window  which  swung  open  from  the  balcony  leading  from 
the  room.  "Another  day  of  it  will  kill  me ! "  she  exclaimed, 
rather  to  herself  than  to  Margaret.  "I've  tried  to  be 
some  one  else  all  summer,  and  what  is  the  result?  I've 
lost  my  friends,  I've  given  myself  a  chance  to  discover 
how  hopelessly  impossible  my  husband  is,  and  I  have  no 
longer  any  confidence  in  myself.  I  can't  stand  it,  Peggy ! " 
Then  she  held  her  arms  full  length  before  her.  "I  can't 
stand  it,  and  I  won't!  I'm  going  to  live  my  life  again,  in 
my  own  way.  If  this  is  indiscreet,  as  Ned  says,  then  I 
was  born  for  indiscretions,  and  I  must  take  the  conse- 
quences. No  more  sackcloth  for  me,  —  I'm  going  to  live, 
live,  live!" 

The  mention  of  Cunningham's  name  gave  Margaret  the 
key  to  the  situation,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  standing 
beside  Lucy  at  the  window,  with  her  arm  about  her. 

"You're  all  unstrung,  dear,"  she  comforted  her  as  the 
tears  came  at  last,  and  the  proud  head  rested  upon  her 
shoulder.  "You  have  taken  what  Ned  has  said  to  you 
far  too  seriously.  No  one  has  a  right  to  go  beyond  cau- 
tioning a  friend  of  danger  which  he  may  think  exists 
without  that  friend's  knowledge.  He  may  overestimate 
the  danger,  or  the  friend  may  disregard  it;  that's  all  there 
is  to  it.  If  Ned  has  gone  beyond  that  he  has  said  more 
than  he  had  a  right  to  say.  I  am  sure  he  would  tell  you 
the  same  if  he  were  here." 

"Look!"  Lucy  exclaimed,  raising  her  head  and  pointing 
to  the  shore.  "Think  how  utterly  miserable  that  gull 
would  be  if  you  tried  to  make  it  assume  the  dignity  of  a 

[178] 


THE    MOTH 


swan.  Yet  that  is  just  what  I've  been  trying  to  do,  Peggy. 
Come,  let's  sit  down  again.  You  and  Ned  are  such  normal 
creatures  that  you  can't  understand  me  at  all.  I  must  be 
an  exotic  of  some  kind,  for  I  don't  look  at  things  the  way 
other  women  do :  I  abominate  housekeeping,  I'm  perfectly 
willing  to  let  some  one  else  take  care  of  my  children,  and 
I  don't  see  any  harm  in  enjoying  the  companionship  of 
other  men  when  my  own  husband  bores  me  to  distraction. 
But  I  do  know  where  to  draw  the  line,  and  the  greatest 
danger  I  have  ever  run  is  the  possibility  of  having  the 
Mrs.  Grundys  tear  me  into  shreds;  but  they  do  that 
anyway,  and  the  consequences  can  only  fall  on  me." 

For  the  first  time  Margaret  fully  understood.  The 
unpleasant  experience  with  Vallie  was  but  an  episode  and 
not,  as  she  had  supposed,  the  real  cause  of  Lucy's  attitude. 
That  fell  back  on  Ned,  and  the  responsibility  which  came 
with  it  made  her  tremble.  All  was  clear  now:  Lucy  had 
sought  to  atone  for  her  single  act  of  folly  by  following  his 
advice  to  the  letter,  and  by  making  himself  her  mentor 
he  had  gone  beyond  the  point  of  safety.  Fortunately, 
Margaret  said  to  herself,  an  understanding  of  the  exact 
situation  had  come  to  her  in  time. 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  Ned,"  Lucy  said,  continuing 
her  conversation.  "I  don't  dare  to;  he'll  be  very  angry 
with  me." 

"I  will  tell  him,"  Margaret  answered,  "and  I  will  also 
tell  him  that  he  has  gone  too  far  in  his  advice." 

"  But  he  isn't  to  blame  —  Lucy  sprang  to  his  defense, 
noting  Margaret's  attitude. 

"No  one  is  to  blame,"  she  replied.  "Ned  is  very  fond 
of  you,  as  we  all  are,  and  after  your  foolish  experience 
with  him  he  felt  it  to  be  friendly  to  warn  you  against  your 
impulses.  That  was  all  right,  but  he  has  no  occasion  to 

[1791 


THE    MOTH 


go  further.  You  have  taken  that  advice  far  too  literally. 
Of  course  you  must  live  your  own  life.  Whether  Ned  or 
I  or  any  others  of  your  friends  approve  or  disapprove 
cannot  count  against  a  natural  expression  of  your  real 
self.  Your  responsibility  is  only  to  your  husband  and  your 
children  and  yourself." 

"You're  not  going  to  give  me  up,  are  you?"  Lucy 
demanded,  sitting  upright. 

"You  silly  child!"  Margaret  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 
"It  is  you  who  are  giving  us  up!  But  we  must  be  seri- 
ous. Be  yourself,  Lucy,  live  your  own  life,  as  you  say 
you  are  going  to,  and  let  us  contribute  to  it  all  that  any 
friends  could;  but  don't  forget  that  your  husband  and 
your  children  are  a  part  of  that  life,  and  must  always  be. 
I'm  sorry  enough  that  the  summer  has  been  so  dull  for 
you,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  it  has  been  without  its  com- 
pensations. It  has  given  you  a  chance  to  think,  and  I'm 
sure  it  would  be  a  grand  thing  if  we  all  wrere  forced  to  do 
that  more  than  we  are." 

Lucy  raised  her  hands  despairingly.  "I  never  want 
to  think  again,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Then,  too,  you  certainly  know  your  children  better 
than  you  did — " 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted,  "that  is  perfectly  true.  I'm 
not  ready  to  accept  them  as  playmates  and  companions 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  but  I  have  learned  something 
about  them." 

"And  your  next  problem,  perhaps,  will  be  that  greatest 
one  of  all  we  women  have  to  solve,  —  how  to  understand 
our  husbands." 

Lucy  jumped  to  her  feet.  "Why  do  you  bring  him 
into  the  conversation?"  she  demanded.  "I  had  forgotten 
him,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  reminded.  Forgive  me, 

[180] 


THE    MOTH 


Peggy,"  she  cried  quickly  and  contritely,  each  new  mood 
succeeding  with  astonishing  rapidity,  "I'm  just  as  horrid 
as  I  can  be;  but  Vallie  does  anger  me  so." 

"Still,  my  dear  — "  Margaret  spoke  with  great  delib- 
eration, "still,  he  is  your  husband  after  all,  while  Ned 
and  I  are  only  your  friends." 


XX 


MARGARET  welcomed  the  opportunity  which  the 
intervening   time   gave   her,    as    the   car    sped 
swiftly  toward  the  city,  to  study  the  problem 
before  the  points  which  had  now  become  clear  were  colored 
by  the  expression  of  her  husband's  opinions.    The  whole 
situation  left  an  unpleasant  impression  upon  her,  and  she 
felt  the  necessity  of  analyzing  the  causes  and  effects. 

Arranged  in  the  sequence  of  their  importance,  her  first 
thought  was  why  Lucy  Spencer  had  allowed  herself  to  be 
influenced  by  Ned's  remarks  to  the  extent  of  completely 
changing  her  life  and  making  herself  so  utterly  miserable. 
Such  of  his  advice  as  she  had  heard  was  wise  and  friendly, 
but  he  must  have  said  much  more  and  have  spoken  more 
forcefully  than  she  knew  in  order  to  produce  such  far- 
reaching  results.  Margaret  could  see  clearly  the  remark- 
able change  which  had  taken  place,  and  she  recognized  that 
the  Lucy  who  feared  to  tell  Ned  of  her  recent  decision  was 
not  the  irresponsible  child  who  had  earlier  thrown  her  arms 
about  his  neck  without  exciting  the  slightest  misunder- 
standing in  Margaret's  mind.  The  old  impulsiveness 
had  manifested  itself  during  their  present  conversation, 
but  Lucy's  statements  regarding  her  conclusions  and 
intentions  carried  more  weight  with  them  than  before. 
Margaret  and  Ned  had  done  their  best  to  serve  her  inter- 

[182] 


THE    MOTH 


ests  as  they  had  seen  them,  but  after  all  there  was  no 
responsibility  on  either  side  beyond  what  each  chose  to 
accept.  If  Lucy  saw  fit  to  do  this  thing  or  that  she  had  a 
perfect  right  to  do  it,  and  her  anxiety  to  square  the  situa- 
tion with  Xed  implied  an  obligation  which  Margaret  was 
not  ready  to  recognize. 

From  this  point  she  passed  to  a  consideration  of 
the  woman  herself.  In  spite  of  the  peculiar  nature  of 
their  conversation,  Lucy  had  never  made  upon  her  so 
favorable  an  impression.  Contrary  to  her  own  fears,  the 
former  sprightliness  and  vivacity  were  not  destroyed,  but 
appeared  to  far  greater  advantage  because  of  the  new 
grace  added  by  the  quieter  demeanor  which  the  weeks  of 
renunciation  had  wrought.  She  could  never  be  the  same 
Lucy  again,  Margaret  believed,  but  she  was  already  a  far 
more  fascinating  woman  than  before.  Again  the  disquiet- 
ing suggestion  forced  itself  into  the  consideration  that 
if  Ned  admired  her  in  her  irresponsibility,  and  felt  a 
protecting  interest  in  her,  he  might  become  even  more 
impressed  when  he  felt  the  full  charm  of  her  present  bear- 
ing. But  Margaret  reproached  herself  for  harboring  such 
a  thought  even  for  a  moment,  and  put  it  aside  as  abso- 
lutely unworthy. 

All  in  all  she  found  herself  in  a  curious  predicament. 
She  had  become  interested  in  Lucy  solely  at  Ned's  request 
and  because  she  knew  that  it  would  be  wiser  for  her  to  do 
so  than  for  him,  but  in  this  more  intimate  acquaintance 
she  herself  had  fallen  beneath  the  spell  of  this  contra- 
dictory yet  compelling  personality.  At  this  very  moment 
she  blamed  her  for  being  the  cause  of  the  first  thought  of 
criticism  which  had  ever  come  in  her  relation  to  her  hus- 
band, yet  with  the  blame  came  a  sympathy  and  a  desire 
to  relieve  which  was  entirely  paradoxical.  She  demanded 

[183] 


THE    MOTH 


of  herself  why  she  should  care  what  Lucy  Spencer  did, 
and  in  the  same  breath  she  wondered  what  she  could  do 
to  make  the  problem  more  simple.  As  always,  she  found 
herself  relying  upon  Ned  for  the  final  answer  to  her  ques- 
tion, but  in  this  present  instance  she  determined  to  warn 
him  that  there  were  lions  in  the  path. 

She  was  quite  herself  again  when  Cunningham  joined 
her  at  the  station,  and  she  lost  no  time  in  giving  him  a 
full  account  of  her  ball  and  all  that  had  come  out  of  it. 
As  she  surmised,  he*  received  the  news  as  a  matter  of 
serious  moment,  and  long  after  they  reached  home  they 
discussed  it  in  the  library.  That  is,  Cunningham  dis- 
cussed it;  at  first  Margaret  took  little  part  in  the  con- 
versation. At  length,  however,  she  saw  her  opportunity 
to  add  a  word  of  caution: 

"Don't  you  think  we  have  interfered  in  her  affairs  as 
much  as  we  really  should?" 

"I  don't  look  upon  it  as  interference,"  he  replied,  "and 
I  don't  believe  Lucy  does.  We  —  that  is  I  have  created  a 
situation  for  the  poor  child  which  is  impossible,  and  having 
got  her  into  the  predicament,  surely  I  must  see  her  through. 
I  had  no  idea,  of  course,  that  she  would  go  to  extremes 
as  she  has  done,  but  she  has  made  a  plucky  fight,  and  it 
would  be  wrong  to  leave  her  to  her  own  resources  just 
when  she  needs  us  most." 

"Does  it  change  your  idea  now  that  you  know  Vallie 
is  not  as  indifferent  as  you  thought?" 

"Yes;  and  I  shall  urge  her  to  meet  him  half  way.  I'll 
write  her  a  letter  tonight.  But  from  what  you  say  it  is 
evident  that  she  is  on  the  verge  of  doing  the  first  foolish 
thing  which  pops  into  her  head.  Perhaps  a  word  of  advice 
will  save  her  from  making  that  mistake." 

Margaret  did  not  reply,  but  Cunningham  was  too  much 
[184] 


THE    MOTH 


occupied  by  his  thoughts  to  notice  it.  She  watched  him 
across  the  table,  knowing  his  moods  so  well  that  there 
was  no  danger  in  his  absorption  that  he  would  discover 
the  intensity  of  her  look.  She  wished  for  a  moment  that 
she  might  be  a  problem  which  would  warrant  such  de- 
liberation, then  she  chided  herself  for  wishing  it. 

"That's  what  I  must  do,"  he  said  at  length,  rising  and 
drawing  his  chair  before  the  writing^able.  "It  would 
be  better  to  talk  it  over,  but  there'srno  telling  when  I 
shall  have  a  chance  to  see  her.  If  Spencer  has  shown 
the  slightest  sign  of  trying  to  be  half-decent,  Lucy  must 
encourage  it." 

"Must?"  Margaret  echoed. 

"Yes,"  he  said  decisively;  "she  will  do  what  I  tell  her." 

As  usual  when  his  mind  was  made  up,  Cunningham  lost 
little  time  in  preliminaries.  Margaret's  eye  still  followed 
him  as  he  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  from  the  case  and  prepared 
to  put  his  thought  into  execution.  All  else  was  forgotten 
now  that  he  had  focused  his  attention  upon  its  single 
object.  His  wife  felt  it  to  be  almost  an  isolation,  and  she 
could  not  pass  it  by. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  get  into  it  any  deeper,"  she 
remarked  quietly. 

Cunningham,  on  the  point  of  dipping  his  pen  into  the 
ink,  looked  up  surprised.  "You're  not  really  serious?" 

"Yes,  I  am.    I  think  we  both  have  done  all  we  ought." 

"Peggy,  dear,"  he  said  with  infinite  feeling,  reaching 
over  and  taking  her  hand  in  his,  "you  wouldn't  have  me 
leave  undone  any  act  which  my  friendship  for  that  little 
girl  prompts  me  to  do?  That  isn't  like  you." 

"I  don't  think  it's  safe,"  she  insisted. 

"What  possible  harm  can  come  of  a  note  urging  her  to 
meet  her  husband  half-way?  Come,  tell  me." 


THE    MOTH 


It  was  difficult  to  oppose  Cunningham  in  this  mood. 
There  was  a  persuasiveness  in  his  frankness,  an  irresisti- 
ble argument  in  his  own  conviction. 

"Perhaps  none,"  Margaret  yielded;  "but  somehow  I 
don't  like  to  have  you  do  it." 

"I'll  show  you  the  letter.  You  shall  say  whether  or 
not  I  shall  send  it.  Isn't  that  fair?" 

"Of  course  it  is^dear."  She  bent  down  and  kissed  his 
forehead.  "Your  heart  is  so  big  that  you  take  every  one's 
troubles  into  it.  Forgive  me." 

For  half  an  hour  Cunningham  wrote,  tore  up  and  wrote 
again  until  he  had  satisfied  himself  with  the  letter;  then 
he  handed  it  to  Margaret. 

" I  don't  believe  I  ought  to  read  it,"  she  said;  "  it's  really 
between  you  and  Lucy." 

"No,"  he  corrected;  "it's  between  us  and  Lucy.  Please 
read  it." 

She  took  the  letter.  My  dear  Lucy,  it  began :  Margaret 
has  given  me  your  declaration  of  independence,  but  I  refuse 
to  see  in  it  anything  other  than  a  message  that  your  self- 
examination  has  shown  you  a  strength  which  gives  you  con- 
fidence in  yourself.  She  was  right  when  she  told  you  that, 
you  had  taken  my  suggestions  (for  which  you  asked!) 
far  too  literally  if  you  found  in  them  any  thought  which 
restrained  you  from  expressing  your  real  self.  We  all 
must  do  that,  but  sometimes  it  takes  us  a  little  while  to  dis- 
cover what  that  real  self  is. 

Some  one  has  told  me  that  Vallie  has  expressed  a  desire 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf.  May  it  not  be  that  he  really  means 
what  he  says,  and  that  the  moment  has  come  when  perhaps 
you  may  find  in  him  what  you  think  you  have  forever  lost  ? 
We  all  are  prone  to  think  the  day  of  miracles  is  past,  and 
through  force  of  habit  to  close  our  eyes  to  what  is  actually 

[186] 


THE    MOTH 


taking  place.  If  he  is  now  sincere,  what  he  was  need  trouble 
you  no  longer.  He  has  been  selfish  and  neglectful,  and  un- 
doubtedly has  committed  many  indiscretions,  but  who  has 
not  been  a  fool  sometime  in  his  life  ¥  Who  of  us  would  'scape 
the  whipping  post  if  all  things  were  summed  up?  There- 
fore, not  as  wife  alone,  but  as  a  fellow-creature,  out  of  sympa- 
thy for  the  weaknesses  he  has  shown,  why  not  take  him  now 
at  his  own  estimate  and  help  him  live  up  to  it  ?  Turn  a  deaf 
car  to  what  you  may  hear  in  his  disfavor,  and  take  him 
for  what  he  may  be  rather  than  for  what  he  is.  You  have 
been  justly  angry  and  disgusted,  but  it  would  be  more  than 
pity,  if  he  really  has  gold  in  him,  did  you  not  seize  any 
opportunity  to  help  him  to  refine  it.  If  we  are  wrong,  we 
can  laugh  a  little  together  and  say  "  We  meant  well,  and  we 
made  the  trial."  Am  I  asking  too  much?  I  think  I  know 
you  well  enough  to  answer  my  own  question. 

"There,  dear;  is  there  any  harm  in  that?  Is  that 
interfering  with  her  affairs?"  Cunningham  asked  as  she 
looked  up. 

Margaret  smiled.  "It  is  a  sweet  letter,  Ned;  and  just 
like  you,"  she  answered,  ignoring  the  second  question. 

It  was  just  like  him,  not  the  letter  alone,  but  the  ques- 
tion .  Keen,  clever,  astute  in  all  matters  which  pertained  to 
his  profession,  he  himself  was  childlike  in  his  disregard  of 
self  when  it  came  to  his  relations  with  those  in  whom  he 
felt  the  deepest  interest.  To  others  the  manner  could 
not  appear  other  than  didactic,  but  to  Margaret  who  knew 
the  trait  so  well  it  was  simply  his  way  of  putting  his  whole 
soul  into  whatever  he  undertook.  He  had  come  to  regard 
Lucy  in  the  light  of  a  case,  and  was  devoting  to  it  his  most 
careful  professional  attention  with  all  personality  elimi- 
nated. He  could  advise  a  wife  as  to  her  proper  conduct 
toward  her  husband  and  be  perfectly  oblivious  to  any 

U87] 


THE    MOTH 


thought  that  he  was  interfering  in  her  affairs!  He  could 
not  realize  that  his  motives  might  be  misconstrued. 
With  his  eyes  fixed  steadfastly  on  the  goal,  he  plunged 
ahead,  unmindfuF  of  the  pitfalls  because  thus  far  he  had 
escaped  them.  Margaret  recognized  the  dangers,  yet 
hesitated  to  interfere  with  that  very  characteristic  which 
had  brought  him  his  success. 

The  letter  reached  Lucy  on  the  following  day  and 
found  her  in  the  midst  of  her  emancipation  preparations. 
She  had  determined  to  celebrate  the  momentous  event, 
and  as  a  preliminary  step  had  written  notes  or  tele- 
phoned to  those  of  her  friends  who  had  deserted  her,  as 
she  expressed  it,  giving  them  a  final  opportunity  to  re- 
affirm their  allegiance.  She  read  it  through  with  a  puzzled 
expression,  then  sat  down  deliberately  and  reread  it.  What 
in  the  world  could  have  happened!  This  was  the  first  she 
had  heard  of  Vallie's  regeneration,  and  Ned  must  have 
some  information  which  had  been  denied  to  her.  After 
his  recent  disgraceful  conduct,  it  was  too  bad  of  Vallie,  she 
thought,  to  keep  her  in  ignorance  of  this  interesting  state  of 
affairs,  but  she  was  too  deeply  immersed  in  her  present 
plans  to  give  the  matter  as  serious  consideration  as  she 
would  otherwise  have  done.  She  had  swept  him  from  her 
mind,  preferring  to  center  her  thoughts  upon  more  agree- 
able  objects.  Would  the  men  respond  to  her  call  as  they 
had  at  other  times,  or  had  she  really  relegated  herself  to 
a  position  which  was  beyond  repair?  She  knew  Auchester 
would  come:  he  at  least  could  be  relied  upon.  She  wanted 
to  see  him  now  that  she  was  herself  again,  for  she  knew 
that  he  would  compliment  her  on  the  change.  How  well 
he  understood  women !  Never  once  had  he  failed  to  speak 
the  words  which  she  expected  to  hear  in  response  to  any 
expression  she  might  make.  His  loyalty  throughout  these 

[188] 


THE    MOTH 


trying  weeks  encouraged  her  to  believe  that  the  others 
only  awaited  her  summons,  having  misunderstood  her 
unnatural  attitude. 

It  had  been  so  long  since  Lucy  had  planned  any  gaiety 
that  even  the  thought  of  it  filled  her  with  pleasurable 
excitement.  Goodbye  forever  to  the  drab  days  and  the 
drab  life!  Her  spirit  craved  companionship  and  admira- 
tion and  joyous  hours.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  emerging 
after  a  long  illness,  and  she  craved  a  return  to  color  after 
the  plain  white  walls  of  the  hospital.  She  walked  out  in 
the  garden  and  was  surprised  that  she  had  not  noticed 
how  the  flowers  were  flourishing,  impulsively  breaking 
the  stem  of  a  gorgeous  blossom  and  inhaling  deep  the 
fragrance  of  its  petals.  She  wandered  down  to  the  shore, 
and  the  lapping  of  the  waves  made  music  which  she  had 
almost  forgotten.  As  she  returned  she  met  Babs  on  her 
way  down  to  the  beach,  and  surprised  the  child  by  lifting 
her  into  her  arms  and  covering  the  little  face  with  kisses. 
She  hummed  softly  to  herself  as  she  moved  about  the 
house,  and  seemed  forgetful  of  all  save  happy  memories. 
Life  was  sweet  again,  and  she  lived  only  in  its  intoxicating 
present. 

Then  the  thought  of  Ned's  letter  returned,  and  she  read 
it  through  once  more.  Dear,  foolish  old  Ned !  lie  had  some 
idea  in  his  mind  even  if  she  couldn't  fathom  it.  Of  course 
the  letter  demanded  an  answer,  but  she  could  not  imagine 
what  to  say.  Again  she  asked  herself  what  had  happened. 
Perhaps  Margaret  had  met  Vallie  as  she  came  in,  and  he 
had  said  something  which  she  had  misunderstood.  That 
must  be  it.  Gold  in  Vallie!  If  it  were  there,  he  would 
have  discovered  it  long  ago,  had  it  assayed,  and  used  it  to 
pay  some  of  his  debts!  But  the  letter  must  be  answered, 
for  Ned  had  meant  well.  Surely  they  would  laugh  about 

[189] 


THE    MOTH 


it  afterwards,  but  not  the  way  he  meant.  She  sat  down  at 
the  little  Chippendale  desk  in  her  room  and  wrote: 

0  thou  Conscientious  One !  You  are  a  dear  boy  to  write  me 
such  a  letter  when  you  know  that  I  am  rebellious  over  your 
tyranny;  but  you  may  as  well  give  me  up  at  once,  for  I  can't 
live  up  to  the  picture.  Life  is  too  sweet  to  me  and  Convention 
too  hideous  in  her  awful  righteousness.  Let  those  who  will 
rejoice  in  their  dull,  drab  past.  As  for  me,  I'm  practising 
some  new  steps  for  a  dance  with  the  Satyrs. 

But  Ned,  who  told  you  that  yarn  about  Vallie  ? 

The  only  new  leaf  he  has  turned  over  is  in  his  check  book. 
Don't  waste  any  sympathy  on  him:  save  that  for  me  —  after 
the  dance  I 


190] 


XXI 


LUCY'S  stag  party  was  a  complete  success.  What- 
ever hesitation  the  cautiously  inclined  among  the 
men  might  have  had  vanished  completely  when  its 
importance  became  known.  Where  one  might  have  felt 
himself  imprudent,  many  might  venture  with  im- 
punity. Lucy's  affairs  had  been  much  talked  of  by  those 
who  still  admired  her  and  who  really  missed  her  vivacious 
personality.  Her  presence  at  any  function  changed  it  at 
once  from  still  life  to  the  sparkling  effervescence  of  cham- 
pagne, and  the  fact  that  she  absented  herself  from  her 
favorite  summer  haunts,  together  with  Vallie's  noticeable 
disinclination  to  be  found  at  home,  gave  weight  to  more 
or  less  ugly  gossip  which  might  otherwise  have  died  at 
birth.  Some  had  it  that  a  separation  had  already  virtually 
taken  place,  and  that  Vallie  only  awaited  a  return  to 
town  before  starting  proceedings.  Auchester's  name  was 
linked  with  Lucy's,  and  the  coolness  which  had  replaced 
the  former  intimacy  between  Spencer  and  the  Captain 
was  commented  upon  as  significant.  Others  insisted  that 
Cunningham  was  the  man  in  the  case,  but  these  rumors 
appeared  to  come  from  feminine  sources  and  were  laughed 
at  by  the  men.  Then  the  principals  changed  places  and 
Lucy  was  to  be  the  aggressive  one.  From  the  men's 
standpoint  this  appeared  far  more  plausible,  for  they  all 

[191] 


THE    MOTH 


knew  that  Vallie  had  been  going  the  pace,  laying  himself 
open  to  all  sorts  of  complications  if  his  wife  knew  of  them 
and  felt  disposed  to  take  advantage.  So,  in  spite  of  her 
belief  that  she  had  dropped  out  of  mind  as  well  as  out  of 
sight,  Lucy  was  still  a  factor  in  the  lives  of  those  with 
whom  she  had  previously  trained. 

The  unusual  invitation  was  not  only  an  agreeable  one 
to  accept,  but  it  whetted  the  curiosity  of  all.  Miller  and 
Hay  den  boasted  on  board  the  "Sylph,"  chaffing  Spencer 
because  he  had  heard  nothing  of  it,  and  commiserating 
Eustis,  whose  omission  showed  that  he  was  held  partly 
responsible  for  Vallie's  backsliding.  Langdon,  fatigued 
by  his  summer's  work,  welcomed  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
Lucy  again  with  the  same  avidity  that  another  man  would 
have  tossed  off  three  fingers  of  raw  whisky.  Archie 
Reed  placed  his  car  at  the  disposal  of  his  friends  for  the 
occasion,  evidently  feeling  safer  to  appear  with  a  body- 
guard, to  avoid  possible  complications  with  a  jealous 
husband.  Auchester  had  his  own  ideas  upon  the  subject, 
which  he  kept  carefully  to  himself;  but  all  approached 
the  event  with  such  anticipation  that  had  the  hostess 
known  the  exact  state  of  affairs  she  would  willingly  have 
passed  through  another  similar  period  of  retirement  in 
order  to  produce  so  dramatic  a  climax. 

She  had  made  it  clear  that  with  the  single  exception  of 
herself  it  was  distinctly  a  stag  affair.  With  characteris- 
tic daring  Lucy  plunged  all  on  this  coup.  She  would  test 
her  friends  and  herself  in  such  a  way  that  there  could  be 
no  possible  misunderstanding.  If  her  reign  over  her  little 
court  was  but  ephemeral,  she  preferred  to  know  it  now 
and  adapt  herself  to  established  conditions.  She  was  to 
be  the  only  attraction,  and  if  the  magnet  had  lost  its  power 
then  she  would  accept  her  fate  as  best  she  could. 

[192] 


THE    MOTH 


It  was  a  gorgeous  August  afternoon,  and  Lucy  moved 
about  the  house  and  through  the  grounds  in  an  ecstasy 
of  joy  as  she  inspected  the  final  details.  The  pergola  was 
transformed  into  a  miniature  buffet,  where  her  guests 
might  choose  such  liquid  refreshments  as  their  thirst 
would  indicate.  Three  tables  were  laid  on  the  piazza 
for  auction,  for  Lucy  did  not  intend  to  depend  wholly 
upon  conversation  to  make  the  time  go  pleasantly,  and 
inside,  in  the  dining-room,  preparations  were  completed 
for  an  enticing  spread,  planned  especially  to  capture  the 
masculine  palate. 

Auchester  was  the  first  to  arrive.  Curiously,  Lucy  had 
expected  this,  and  again  the  Captain  had  done  exactly 
what  she  knew  he  would  do.  He  looked  into  her  face  a 
full  minute  before  he  spoke,  and  she  did  not  need  to  await 
his  words  to  sense  his  admiration. 

"By  Jove!  you  are  a  picture!"  he  exclaimed.  "Say 
what  you  will  about  these  tedious  weeks,  they  have  given 
you  a  chance  to  rest  and  have  made  you  more  wonder- 
ful than  ever." 

Lucy  smiled  contentedly.  This  was  more  like  old 
times.  "You  always  say  something  to  cheer  me  up," 
she  replied,  "and  I  owe  much  to  you.  Without  you  I 
never  could  have  endured  it." 

"I  wish  I  dared  ask  you  a  question,"  he  suggested. 

"Don't  you?"  she  laughed. 

"By  Jove,  I  will!  Why  did  you  let  Cunningham  per- 
suade you  into  anything  so  stupid,  and  why  have  you 
thrown  over  his  advice?" 

"I  can't  answer  both  questions  at  once."     Lucy  was 

in  the  rarest  good  humor.     "He  said  some  things  about 

my  conduct  which  I  have  no  doubt  were  justified.    Every 

one,  even  you,  tells  me  that  the  results  are  beneficial, 

13  [  193  1 


THE    MOTH 


so  I  feel  myself  under  obligations  to  Ned.  As  to  his  advice, 
I  don't  know  that  I  have  'thrown  it  over,'  as  you  say. 
He  has  told  me  always  to  express  my  real  self,  and  this 
is  my  first  opportunity  to  make  that  expression." 

"Is  he  to  be  here  this  afternoon?" 

"No;  this  is  a  bachelors'  party,  and  I'm  the  most 
confirmed  bachelor  of  all." 

"But  you  didn't  ask  him,  did  you?"  Auchester  insisted. 

"No,"  she  admitted.  "I  couldn't  very  well  without 
inviting  Margaret,  and  I  wanted  you  men  all  to  myself." 

"Will  your  husband  be  here?"  he  inquired  further. 

Lucy's  eyes  flashed.  "No,"  she  said,  "I  hope  not.  I 
hate  him!  If  he  comes,  it  will  be  only  because  he  knows 
it  will  annoy  me." 

"You  hate  him?"  Auchester  repeated  meaningly,  draw- 
ing closer  to  her.  "Do  you  mean  that?" 

"Every  word  of  it.    I  wish  I  might  never  see  him  again." 

"And  you're  going  to  live  your  own  life?" 

"If  I  don't  now  it's  my  own  fault,"  she  laughed. 

"How  about  conventions?" 

"To  the  winds  with  them,"  she  cried  gaily.  "Let  the 
Mrs.  Grundys  talk!  Life  is  too  sweet,  companionship  too 
dear  to  let  every  one  else  do  your  thinking  for  you.  Come 
and  see  what  I  have  arranged  in  the  pergola." 

The  Captain  was  on  the  verge  of  losing  his  quiet 
self-restraint.  Lucy  had  no  way  of  knowing  that  these 
weeks  had  been  hard  ones  for  him  as  well.  Before  Cun- 
ningham's influence  had  gained  such  complete  control 
over  her,  Auchester  believed  that  the  progress  he  was 
making  was  substantial.  He  rejoiced  that  circumstances 
gave  him  the  opportunity  of  becoming  a  necessity  to  her; 
but  when  he  found  that  in  spite  of  everything  she  failed 
utterly  to  read  in  his  words  or  actions  the  great  fact  which 

[194] 


THE    MOTH 


now  dominated  him,  he  began  to  fear  that  he  had  mis- 
understood her  after  all.  The  return  of  the  old  note  in 
her  voice  as  she  talked  with  him  over  the  telephone,  un- 
folding her  plans  and  seeking  his  advice,  gave  him  courage 
to  believe  that  his  own  moment  was  nearer  at  hand  than 
he  had  feared.  Once  more  in  her  presence,  with  a  return 
of  the  vivacity  which  had  recently  been  lacking,  he  began 
where  he  had  left  off,  and  rejoiced  at  what  her  words  told 
him.  The  time  was  propitious:  he  would  take  advantage 
of  it. 

"Then  you  have  come  to  my  way  of  thinking?"  he 
said,  continuing  their  conversation  after  expressing  his 
admiration  for  Lucy's  preparations. 

"About  conventions?  Yes.  A  woman  is  a  fool  to  let 
them  stand  in  the  way  of  her  happiness." 

"At  last  you  have  learned  the  secret  of  life!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Now  that  we  have  solved  it,  why  may  we  not 
experience  its  joys  together?" 

"We  may,"  she  replied,  smiling.  "Those  who  read  in 
life  the  same  messages  should  surely  enjoy  them  together. 
Of  course  we  may." 

The  Captain  took  her  hand  gently  and  raised  it  gal- 
lantly to  his  lips.  "Then  let  us  begin  to  plan  at  once," 
he  said.  "You  have  given  me  a  happiness  I  have  never 
felt  before." 

There  was  an  intensity  in  his  words  which  frightened 
her.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  intense  people  and  was 
at  a  loss  to  reply.  Fortunately  for  her  embarrassment, 
at  this  moment  Archie  Reed's  motor  stopped  at  the 
steps  and  she  left  the  Captain,  to  greet  the  new 
arrivals. 

"Good  boys,  all,"  she  cried.  "I  knew  you  wouldn't 
forget  me!" 

*  [ 195  ] 


THE    MOTH 


"We  really  thought  you  wanted  to  be  let  alone,"  Reed 
explained. 

"Well,  it's  all  over  now.  Come  up  and  let  me  look  at 
you." 

Leading  one  by  each  hand,  and  with  the  others  following 
behind,  Lucy  pulled  them  to  the  pergola,  standing  them 
hi  a  row,  with  their  backs  to  the  table  where  the  cigars 
and  bottles  were  in  evidence.  "There!"  she  said,  drawing 
a  step  back  and  surveying  them.  "This  is  a  new  game  of 
Tantalus,  and  you  shan't  have  anything  until  I've  given 
my  eyes  their  glad  surprise.  I've  been  in  a  trance  all 
summer,  but  now  I've  come  to  life.  Break  ranks  and 
enjoy  yourselves!  Bertie,  mix  Martinis  for  us  all, 
and  then  I  ask  you  to  drink  to  the  reborn  Lucy.  And 
I'll  drink  with  you,  for  that's  a  toast  I  won't  sit  down 
to." 

Her  mood  was  contagious  and  frivolity  ruled.  The 
remaining  guests  arrived  without  disturbing  the  prepara- 
tions, and  quietly  joined  the  crowd  of  men  about  her. 

"We  can't  give  you  the  toast  here,  Lucy,"  Hayden 
cried;  "up  on  the  table  with  her!  " 

"Your  hand,  Captain,"  Lucy  responded,  placing  her 
slippered  foot  in  his  palm  and  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
"Now — one,  two,  three!"  and  she  lightly  sprang  to  the 
center  of  the  table  near  by. 

"Flowers  for  our  queen!"  Archie  Reed  shouted,  strip- 
ping a  vase  of  its  fragrant  contents  and  handing  them 
up  to  her. 

"The  toast  — the  toast!"  they  cried. 

"To  woman!"  Miller  suggested. 

"To  love!"  Langdon  urged. 

"To  life!"  Lucy  insisted,  holding  her  glass  high  above 
her;  "for  that  includes  all.  To  life  which  was  made  for 

[196] 


THE    MOTH 


you  and  for  me  and  for  happiness.  I  pledge  you  deep, 
my  friends." 

She  handed  the  glass  down  to  Hayden  and  then  turned 
again  to  her  guests,  unwilling  yet  to  relinquish  her  exalted 
position.  "Love,  you  say!"  she  turned  to  Langdon. 
"  Love  is  but  a  part  of  life,  only  a  part,  and  I  want  it  all ! 
See  —  I  love  you,  every  one."  She  separated  the  flowers, 
and  pressing  them  separately  to  her  lips,  tossed  them  to 
the  men  below  her.  Then  she  jumped  lightly  down  from 
the  table. 

With  so  propitious  a  start,  the  afternoon  advanced  on 
golden  wings.  For  a  time  they  played  at  auction,  Lucy 
being  progressed  from  one  table  to  another,  to  show  no 
partiality.  Then,  at  length,  the  men  attacked  the  spread 
in  the  dining-room. 

"I  can't  eat  eleven  ices,"  she  laughed,  gazing  hope- 
lessly at  the  men  standing  or  kneeling  in  various  attitudes 
before  her;  "and  I  can't  accept  any  one,  so  I'll  go  and 
get  my  own.  You  mustn't  treat  me  as  a  woman:  I 
hate  women,  my  old  self  included.  Now  I'm  a  comrade 
with  you  all,  and  we  must  play  together  just  that  way. 
The  new  Lucy  is  just  your  pal  —  will  you  accept  her?" 

Langdon  stepped  forward  with  a  fresh  bottle  of 
champagne. 

"Get  your  glasses,"  he  commanded,  and  with  the 
dignity  attendant  upon  a  religious  rite  he  gave  each  his 
portion.  "Drink  to  Lucy,  our  comrade:  all  for  one  and 
one  for  all.  Long  life  and  prosperity!" 

Later,  as  she  waved  goodbye  to  them,  she  brushed 
back  the  strands  of  hair  which  had  become  loosened 
from  the  mass  and,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  turned  to 
Auchester,  who  still  remained.  "Isn't  it  dear  of  them?" 

[197] 


THE    MOTH 


she  cried.     "Oh,  it's  worth  all  to  know  that  they  do  like 
me.    I  feel  a  thousand  years  younger  already!" 

"I  waited  so  that  we  might  complete  our  plans,"  heA 
suggested. 

"Our  plans?     Oh,  yes;   I  remember." 

"Where  will  you  meet  me?" 

"Anywhere  on  the  face  of  the  globe,"  she  answered, 
her  face  radiant.  "I  never  was  so  happy  in  all  my  life." 

"Is  there  any  place  we  could  dine  together  next  week, 
to  talk  matters  over  at  length?" 

"Why  don't  we  go  to  'Spicer's'?"  Lucy  asked.  "I 
haven't  been  there  all  summer,  and  I'd  love  to." 

"'Spicer's,'"  the  Captain  repeated,  writing  the  name 
on  his  cuff.  "What  night  shall  we  say?" 

"Why  not  Tuesday?" 

"Tuesday  it  is,"  he  assented.  "I'll  telephone  to  arrange 
about  picking  you  up  in  a  car.  Lucy,"  he  continued, 
calling  her  by  name  for  the  first  time,  "you're  the  jolliest 
little  girl  the  Lord  ever  made,  and  I'm  the  luckiest  man." 


[1983 


XXII 


SPICER'S  roadhouse,  situated  a  few  miles  inland 
from  the  North  Shore,  was  a  favorite  rendezvous 
for  automobile  parties,  and  Spicer's  chicken  din- 
ners were  justly  famous.  Nothing  was  more  natural  than 
that  this  should  have  suggested  itself  to  Lucy  as  an 
agreeable  meeting  place  with  any  one,  when  Auchester 
so  unexpectedly  put  the  question  to  her.  At  the  mo- 
ment she  was  intoxicated  by  the  joy  of  popularity,  and 
We  seemed  to  contain  for  her  nothing  but  heavenly 
possibilities.  It  would  never  occur  to  Vallie  to  take 
her  there,  Cunningham  had  not  invited  her,  she  could 
not  go  alone,  and  she  really  wanted  to  go:  here  again 
the  Captain  had  not  disappointed  her. 

The  arrangements  seemed  simple  enough  as  Auchester 
telephoned  them:  at  the  appointed  hour  Lucy  was  to 
walk  up  the  road  toward  Manchester  until  he  overtook 
her;  then  they  would  motor  to  "Spicer's,"  where  they 
would  dine  and  pass  the  evening  together.  It  seemed 
curious  that  he  should  not  call  at  the  house  for  her,  and 
she  could  not  understand  why  he  declined  her  suggestion 
of  using  her  own  car;  but  it  was  the  Captain's  party  and 
she  had  formed  the  habit  of  respecting  his  judgment. 
Lucy's  cheeks  glowed  with  pleasurable  excitement  as 
[199] 


THE    MOTH 


she  casually  left  the  house  as  if  merely  for  a  stroll  soon  ' 
after  twilight  began  to  fall.  Her  anticipation  of  the 
joyment  ahead  of  her  was  in  no  way  tempered  by  a 
suspicion  of  regret.  Curiously  enough,  such  twinges  of 
conscience  as  had  come  since  her  declaration  of  independ- 
ence acknowledged  their  obligation  to  Cunningham  rather 
than  to  her  husband.  But  even  he  must  realize  that  it 
was  necessary  for  her  to  find  some  excitement  in  order 
to  prevent  actual  stagnation,  and  she  could  imagine  no 
logical  reason  why  he  should  object  in  the  slightest  to  the 
plan  which  she  and  Auchester  had  formed  for  this  particu- 
lar evening.  Yet  —  in  spite  of  all  —  she  had  never  done 
just  this  thing  before,  and  perhaps  it  was  the  novelty  of 
the  experience  which  brought  the  blood  to  her  cheeks 
and  supplied  the  slight  touch  of  color  which  her  costume 
seemed  to  demand.  That  it  added  to  the  attractiveness 
of  the  picture  she  presented  could  not  be  denied,  least  of 
all  by  the  Captain,  whose  whole  expression  bespoke  his 
approval  as  he  stepped  gallantly  from  the  car  and  assisted 
her  into  it. 

"My  word!"  he  exclaimed,  without  the  formality  of  the 
usual  greetings,  "you  should  always  wear  white.  You 
are  simply  marvelous!" 

"I  love  white,"  Lucy  admitted;  "I  wish  I  could  wear 
it  always.  It  is  hardly  practical  for  automobiling,  but 
tonight  I  wish  to  do  you  credit;  and  I  do  think  white 
becomes  me  best." 

"  Credit?  "  he  asked.    "  With  whom?  " 
"There  are  sure  to  be  loads  of  people  at  'Spicer's.'" 
Auchester  glanced  at  her  curiously,  but  all  he  remarked 
was  his  noncommittal  "Oh!"      "I  say,"  he.  exclaimed  a 
moment  later  as  the  motor  ran  along  the  narrow,  closely 
wooded  path  after  leaving  the  shore  road,  "why  hasn't 

[200] 


THE    MOTH 


some  one  taken  me  in  here  before?  This  is  simply 
ripping." 

"It  is  wonderful,"  she  replied,  glad  to  see  an  approach 
to  her  own  enthusiastic  mood  on  the  part  of  the  Captain. 
"Did  you  ever  know  of  such  a  combination  of  shore  and 
country!  And  can  you  wonder  that  after  once  learning 
to  know  it  we  are  never  satisfied  to  spend  our  summers 
anywhere  else?" 

"Do  you  know  English  country  life  at  all?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

"No,"  she  answered;   "but  it  surely  can't  equal  this." 

"It  is  different,"  Auchester  admitted,  "but  I  think  you 
will  enjoy  it." 

"Spicer's"  was  more  famed  for  its  dinners  than  for  its 
architecture,  and  Auchester  was  frankly  shocked  by  its 
low,  rambling,  unfinished  appearance.  "Is  this  the 
place?"  he  queried.  "Is  this  a  roadhouse?  It  looks  to 
me  more  like  a  stable." 

Lucy  laughed.  "You  can  never  tell  the  quality  of  a 
hotel  by  the  appearance  of  the  'bus  at  the  station,"  she 
said.  "I  learned  that  the  first  time  I  went  to  Europe. 
It  isn't  much  to  look  at,  I'll  admit,  but  'Spicer's'  is  the 
place  on  the  North  Shore." 

"Then  it  must  have  been  Spicer  himself  I  talked  with 
on  the  telephone,  and  he  must  have  discovered  the  fact 
you  have  just  stated.  He  snubbed  me  with  the  grace  of 
a  grand  duke,  and  I  promised  myself  the  pleasure  of  a 
word  with  him  on  arrival." 

"There's  the  fighting  blood  once  more,"  Lucy  laughed 
again;  "but  please  don't  do  it.  He  would  be  sure  to  send 
us  away  without  dinner  if  he  didn't  like  you,  and  that 
would  be  an  awful  pity." 

"You're  not  serious,  I'm  sure?"  the  Captain  queried. 
[201] 


THE    MOTH 


"Absolutely.  In  America,  summer  hotel-keepers  occupy 
a  position  just  above  the  aristocracy,  and  Spicer  lives  on  a 
pinnacle  just  above  them!  You  must  be  civil  to  him." 

Auchester's  inaudible  reply  was  still  further  lost  in  the 
bustle  of  arrival.  As  the  car  stopped,  a  servant  appeared 
to  assist  the  newcomers  to  alight,  and  to  lead  the  way  into 
the  spacious  hallway.  Here  they  were  met  by  Spicer 
himself,  and  Lucy  was  relieved  to  observe  that  the  Captain 
exercised  restraint  and  permitted  himself  to  be  amused 
by  the  pompous  airs  of  the  proprietor.  Spicer  himself 
was  affected  by  the  Captain's  affability,  and  after  direct- 
ing the  boy  who  had  met  them  to  lead  the  way  to  the 
second  floor,  he  graciously  followed  them  to  the  foot  of 
the  stairway. 

"I  am  confident  you  will  find  everything  satisfactory, 
Mr.  Arbuckle,"  he  said  as  he  left  him. 

Lucy  turned  quickly.  "He  called  you  Mr.  Arbuckle," 
she  said.  "Why  are  we  going  up  stairs?" 

"We  have  a  private  room,"  he  explained;  "it  will  be 
much  pleasanter." 

She  made  no  further  remonstrances,  but  followed  the 
guide  into  a  small  dining-room  which  opened  out  onto  a 
balcony  in  the  rear  of  the  house.  In  the  center  of  the 
room  was  a  round  table,  set  for  two,  the  china  being 
almost  concealed  by  the  enormous  bunch  of  American 
Beauty  roses.  Lucy  exclaimed  as  she  rushed  to  the  table 
and  buried  her  face  in  the  fragrant  flowers.  Then  she 
stepped  from  the  table  to  the  little  balcony,  exchanging 
the  fragrance  of  the  roses  for  the  balsam  of  the  pines. 
When  she  turned  again  the  boy  had  left  the  room,  closing 
the  door  behind  him,  and  she  saw  Auchester  standing 
there,  watching  her  enjoyment  with  a  smile  which  reflected 
his  own  satisfaction. 

[202] 


THE    MOTH 


"Odors  affect  me  just  as  they  do  you,"  she  said.  "I 
never  could  explain  it  exactly,  but  I  find  them  more 
intoxicating  than  wine." 

"Everything  that  is  beautiful  is  intoxicating."  The 
Captain  took  a  step  nearer  and  relieved  her  of  the  slight 
wrap  which  hung  over  her  arm.  "Wine  is  the  coarsest 
of  intoxicants;  a  beautiful  woman  the  most  delicate." 

The  waiter  was  prompt  in  his  service,  so  they  sat  down 
without  ceremony  to  test  the  great  Spicer's  reputation. 
But  the  courses  had  not  progressed  far  when  Lucy  realized 
that  some  one  had  added  to  the  usual  routine  of  the 
chicken  dinner.  One  delicacy  after  another,  some  quite 
new  to  her,  found  their  way  to  her  plate.  Auchester 
watched  her  growing  excitement  with  interest. 

"Where  —  where  did  you  find  all  these  things?"  she 
demanded. 

"After  traveling  the  world  over  for  twenty  years  one 
should  be  able  to  find  some  curiosities.  Your  rose-leaf 
conserve  put  me  on  my  mettle." 

"Yes;  but  how  did  you  get  them  here?" 

"A  friend  in  New  York  searched  them  out  for  me,  and 
they  arrived  just  in  time." 

"No  wonder  Spicer  snubbed  you  when  you  suggested 
improving  his  dinner!  Now  I  understand.  How  delicious 
this  wine  is!" 

"Just  another  aroma  to  transport  us  to  a  land  of 
romance,  —  this  time  to  Italy.  I  dream  of  the  time  when 
we  shall  see  it  together." 

Lucy  looked  up  quickly,  but  the  waiter  had  just  entered  • 
the  room  to  bring  the  coffee  and  cigarettes. 

"Leave  us,"  Auchester  said  abruptly  to  the  boy,  hand- 
ing him  a  bill;  "we  shall  require  nothing  further."  Then 
turning  to  his  companion,  he  held  out  the  box  of  cigarettes. 

[2031 


THE    MOTH 


She  took  one  mechanically,  his  last  remark  giving 
significance  to  what  he  had  said  earlier.  "What  did  you 
mean  about  my  enjoying  English  country  life  and  our 
seeing  Italy  together?" 

Auchester  struck  the  match  against  the  box  and  held 
it  before  her,  the  light  of  the  flame  throwing  the  features 
of  her  face  into  beautiful  relief.  "We  live  always  in  the 
future,"  he  replied.  "Anticipation  is  the  food  the  heart 
thrives  upon." 

Lucy  looked  full  into  his  eyes  for  a  long  moment  as  the 
fact  came  to  her  at  last  that  Auchester  loved  her.  Until 
then  she  had  accepted  him  as  a  man  from  whose  heart  all 
thought  of  sentiment  and  romance  had  been  eliminated 
by  the  wonderful  experiences  which  could  come  only  to 
one  unhampered  by  domestic  responsibilities.  He  had 
told  her  so,  and  she  believed  him.  She  could  not  under- 
stand how  any  man,  having  once  learned  the  advantages 
of  freedom,  could  voluntarily  exchange  it  for  the  re- 
stricted limitations  which  marriage  must  impose.  Judg- 
ment was  not  to  be  expected  of  youth,  swept  off  its  feet 
by  romantic  expectations,  seldom  realized;  for  youth 
could  not  draw  lessons  from  observation  nor  temper  its 
sentiment  by  mature  conclusions.  From  a  woman's 
standpoint  all  was  different,  but  in  her  own  case  the 
present  situation  seemed  equally  impossible.  The  Cap- 
tain's conversation  on  the  subject  of  marriage  came  back 
to  her  now  with  a  definite  significance.  "If  you  met  some 
one  whom  you  really  loved,"  he  had  said.  Then  he  had 
thought  — 

She  rose  abruptly  and  stepped  out  onto  the  balcony. 
The  darkness  had  come  on  during  the  extended  time  which 
they  had  given  to  the  dinner,  and  nothing  outside  was 
discernible  except  the  weird  outlines  of  the  pine  branches, 

[204] 


THE    MOTH 


through  which  the  wind  soughed  gently.  Lucy  stood 
so  long  looking  out  into  the  darkness,  drawing  silently 
at  her  cigarette  from  time  to  time,  that  Auchester  finally 
crossed  the  room  and  stood  beside  her. 

"You  don't  regret  so  soon  the  step  you've  taken?" 
he  said,  half  reproachfully. 

His  words  recalled  her  to  herself.  The  first  surprise 
had  given  way  to  wronder,  and  this  in  turn  was  succeeded 
by  that  sweet  intoxication  which  comes  with  the  first 
knowledge  of  love.  It  was  a  new  experience  to  Lucy. 
When  Vallie  had  asked  her  to  marry  him  there  had  been 
little  of  the  sentimental  about  it.  They  had  attracted 
each  other  and  the  match  seemed  an  appropriate  one,  so, 
as  Lucy  had  told  Cunningham,  before  either  of  them  fully 
realized  it,  the  die  was  cast.  But  here  was  a  man  of  a 
different  stripe,  whose  personality  could  but  appeal  to  any 
woman,  whose  judgment  was  tempered  by  experience  and 
maturity.  Until  ihis  moment  it  had  not  occurred  to  her 
to  ask  herself  that  question  which  the  head  always  de- 
mands of  the  heart,  but  it  was  not  strange  that  when  the 
truth  finally  dawned  her  first  sensation  was  that  of  un- 
explained happiness.  To  her  who  had  been  self-centered 
only  because  she  had  never  learned  to  love,  it  was  a  lifting 
of  the  veil,  disclosing  in  life  a  beauty  of  which  she  had 
never  dreamed. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  love  me?"  she  whispered, 
making  no  answer  to  his  question. 

"Can  you  doubt  it!"  he  cried,  slipping  his  arm  about 
her  waist  and  gently  drawing  her  to  him. 

Like  a  tired  child  she  suffered  him  to  fold  her  in  his 
arms.  Her  eyes  closed,  and  her  head  rested  against  his 
shoulder.  "Oh!  it  is  sweet  to  be  loved!"  she  murmured, 
"oh!  it  is  sweet!" 

[205] 


THE    MOTH 


It  was  only  a  dream  to  Lucy — a  rare,  delicious  dream 
which  took  her  back  to  the  time  when  she  would  creep 
into  her  father's  arms  and  find  there  a  surcease  of  her 
childish  troubles.  But  man-like,  Auchester  must  seal  his 
triumph,  and  gently  raising  her  head  he  pressed  his  lips 
against  hers.  In  a  moment  the  dream  was  ended  and 
Lucy  drew  back  from  him,  standing  unsteadily  but  with 
arm  upraised,  refusing  his  support.  She  passed  her  hand 
across  her  forehead  as  if  bewildered.  She  was  not  angry, 
but  rather  seemed  confused  and  not  fully  comprehending 
her  surroundings. 

"What  am  I  doing!"  she  exclaimed  weakly.  "Why, 
I'm  married,  so  of  course  you  can't  love  me." 

"To  others  that  would  prove  an  obstacle;  to  us  who 
recognize  that  without  love  there  is  no  marriage,  it  is 
merely  an  impediment." 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked,  still  confused. 
"I  don't  understand  at  all." 

"It  means  that  you  and  I  will  leave  behind  us  these 
scenes  which  have  been  painful  to  you  as  soon  as  you  say 
the  word.  It  means  that  we  will  go  together  to  Italy, 
where  I  will  begin  to  make  up  to  you  these  loveless  years, 
until  you  can  obtain  your  divorce;  and  then  I  will  take 
you  to  England  to  my  ancestral  home." 

"But  I  couldn't  leave  Vallie  and  the  children,  even 
if—" 

"Why  concern  yourself  about  him  when  he  never  thinks 
of  you?  As  for  the  children,  I  should  strive  to  give  them 
what  their  own  father  never  has." 

"Surely  you're  not  serious?"  Lucy  said.  "It  all 
seems  so  unreal  and  so  impossible.  I'm  trying  to  compre- 
hend what  you  are  saying." 

Auchester  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  "Did  you  not 
[206] 


THE    MOTH 


mean  it  the  other  day  when  you  said  that  you  wished 
never  again  to  see  your  husband?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  presume  I  did;  but  I've  often  said  that." 

"He  is  nothing  to  you,  —  and  I  love  you,  Lucy,  with 
all  the  strength  of  twenty  years  of  waiting!  For  I  have 
been  waiting,  dear,  waiting  for  just  such  a  woman  as  you 
are;  and  I  thought  you  understood." 

"But  I'm  married,"  she  insisted  again.  "Whatever 
might  have  happened  otherwise,  it's  too  late  now." 

"Not  if  you  love  me,"  he  urged.  "It  was  never  meant 
that  man  and  woman  should  live  together  as  you  and 
Spencer  do.  Love  is  the  tie  that  really  binds." 

"I  know,"  Lucy  admitted;  "but  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
should  love  you  even  if  I  were  free.  Perhaps  I  should, 
for  I  do  like  you,  and  I  enjoy  being  with  you  more  than 
any  one,  but  I  never  thought  it  possible  to  have  love 
enter  my  life.  I've  never  seriously  thought  of  leaving 
Vallie,  for  after  all  I've  become  used  to  him.  Of  course  it 
might  be,  but  that  would  mean  pain  for  us  both,  for  it's 
too  late." 

Auchester's  expression  changed  and  he  spoke  almost 
fiercely.  "Then  when  you  suggested  our  coming  here  you 
had  nothing  else  in  mind  than  having  dinner  together? 
Had  you  not  considered  whether  or  not  you  loved  me  when 
you  made  this  appointment?" 

"Why,  no.  It  was  just  another  of  my  impulses,  I 
suppose.  I  always  enjoy  being  with  you,  and  I  have 
been  so  happy  since  I  became  myself  again.  I  thought 
you  understood.  What  else  could  I  have  meant?" 

"What  else?"  Auchester  repeated  after  her.  "Good 
God!  what  a  mockery !  Listen!  I  thought  you  loved  me, 
Lucy,  and  were  through  with  the  life  your  husband's  neglect 
forces  you  to  lead;  I  thought  you  had  read  in  my  heart  the 

[207] 


THE    MOTH 


passion  which  expresses  the  longing  of  a  soldier  for 
the  woman  whom  he  believes  should  be  his  mate;  I 
thought  that  your  independence  lifted  you  above  mere 
conventions,  and  that  having  learned  what  you  had  be- 
come to  me,  you  were  ready  to  cut  the  knot  with  a  single 
stroke,  leave  the  old  distressing  scenes  behind  you,  and 
blaze  a  path  with  me  into  the  unknown  which  is  always 
kinder  than  th»  known.  That  is  what  I  thought,  that  is 
what  I  believed  you  meant  when  you  came  here  with  me 
tonight." 

Lucy's  confusion  disappeared  as  Auchester  continued 
to  speak.  "You  thought  me  that  kind  of  woman,"  she 
exclaimed  quietly,  but  with  a  world  of  force  in  her  voice. 
"You  have  known  me  these  months  and  could  believe 
that?  Please  let  me  go  home  at  once." 

"Not  yet."  The  Captain  held  out  his  arm  protestingly. 
"Not  until  you  hear  me  out.  I  have  told  you  what  I 
thought;  now  I  tell  you  what  I  know,  and  you  must 
listen.  I  am  a  soldier,  Lucy,  and  a  soldier's  ideas  of  life 
are  different,  for  the  camp  is  not  the  drawing-room.  But 
his  ideas  of  manhood  are  the  same,  however  much  he 
may  have  learned  to  disregard  conventions.  You  shall 
not  go  from  me  tonight  until  I  have  made  you  under- 
stand that  I  have  offered  you  no  disrespect,  nor  treated 
you  other  than  as  the  one  woman  I  could  wish  to  make 
my  wife.  Such  apologies  as  are  required  belong  to  your 
husband,  but  I  have  disregarded  him  because  he  has  dis- 
regarded himself.  Now  that  I  know  your  feelings  in  the 
matter  —  that  you  do  not  regard  me  as  I  thought  you  did, 
and  that  conventions  do  mean  something  to  you  in  spite  of 
your  false  conviction  that  you  disregard  them  —  I  ask  you 
to  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  respect  them  all.  If  you 
felt  as  I  do,  that  would  be  different;  as  you  do  not,  I  can 

[  208  ] 


THE    MOTH 


do  nothing  other  than  accept  your  code.    Will  you  believe 
me,  Lucy?  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  holding  out  her  hand;  "it  has  been 
my  fault,  and  I  thank  you  for  understanding  me.  But 
now  I  must  go  home.  I  didn't  know  you  were  to  have  a 
private  room,  —  and  the  name  you  gave,  —  we've  acted 
like  two  foolish  children!" 

Lucy  started  ahead  of  Auchester,  but  half-way  down 
the  stairs  she  turned.  "I've  forgotten  my  wrap,"  she 
said. 

As  he  went  back  she  continued,  but  when  near  the 
foot  she  found  a  merry  party  of  young  people  awaiting 
their  cars.  Instinctively  she  drew  back,  but  she  saw  that 
she  had  been  observed,  and  recognized  Mrs.  Channing, 
evidently  chaperoning  her  daughters  and  their  friends. 
Retreat  was  impossible,  so  with  her  sweetest  smile 
she  advanced  to  greet  them,  praying  inwardly  that 
the  Captain  might  hear  her  voice  and  remain  in  the 
background. 

"What  a  jolly  party!"  she  exclaimed,  nodding  cheerfully 
to  several  whom  she  knew,  who  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

Mrs.  Channing's  response  was  less  cordial,  and  Lucy 
felt  the  necessity  of  appeasing  the  resentment  which  she 
knew  had  reason  to  exist. 

"What  should  we  do  without  'Spicer's'!"  she  said  to 
her,  with  a  smile  which  sank  no  deeper  than  her  lips. 
"  He  is  an  oasis  in  the  desert  of  domestic  ennui.  Surely 
you  will  grant  that  this  form  of  excitement  is  quite  harm- 
less, even  to  your  young  charges." 

"Your  husband  is  getting  the  car?"  Mrs.  Channing 
asked. 

"Yes  —  that  is,  I  expect  him  every  moment." 

"I  didn't  see  you  in  the  dining-room." 
14  [2091 


THE    MOTH 


"  No;  Mr.  Spicer  always  lets  me  dine  upstairs  when 
I  am  alone." 

"I  should  hardly  think  one  of  your  temperament 
would  find  that  particularly  enjoyable,"  Mrs.  Channing 
continued,  subjecting  her  to  a  careful  scrutiny. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,"  Lucy  responded  with  a  nervous  laugh. 
"I  come  here  whenever  I  find  it  stupid  at  home.  Some- 
times one's  own  company  is  the  best  company  of  all." 

"Your  husband  is  not  here?"  she  persisted. 

"Not  yet;  I  expect  him  every  minute,"  Lucy  lied  cheer- 
fully, encouraged  by  the  fact  that  Auchester  had  not 
appeared. 

By  this  time  the  party  had  reduced  itself  to  Mrs.  Chan* 
ning  and  her  daughters,  and  their  car  was  at  the  door. 
"We  ought  not  to  leave  you  alone  here  at  this  time  of 
night,"  she  said  doubtfully,  evidently  debating  between 
inclination  and  propriety. 

"Oh!  I'm  all  right,"  Lucy  hastened  to  assure  her,  eager 
to  be  relieved  of  her  embarrassment.  "Mr.  Spencer  is 
sure  to  be  here  in  a  moment." 

The  words  were  hardly  spoken  when  Cunningham  came 
in  through  the  open  door.  He  gazed  on  the  scene  before 
him  for  a  moment,  showing  unmistakable  signs  of  relief. 

"The  car  is  waiting  for  you,  Lucy,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Channing  gave  her  a  look  full  of  significance.  "If 
I  meet  Mr.  Spencer  on  the  way  home  I'll  tell  him  that 
you  are  already  provided  for,"  she  said  triumphantly, 
majestically  sailing  out  of  the  room,  driving  her  daughters 
ahead  of  her  with  the  same  protective  air  which  Niobe 
is  said  to  have  exhibited  upon  a  similar  occasion. 


[210] 


XXIII 


CUNNINGHAM  failed  to  grasp  the  situation.    As 
the  Channings  left  the  hallway  Lucy  sank  onto  the 
nearest  chair  in  a  state  of  nervous  collapse.     He 
quickly  stood  beside  her. 

"Lucy,"  he  said,  "where  is  Auchester?" 

"You've  made  an  awful  mess  of  things,"  was  her  only 
reply.  "How  did  you  know  that  I  was  here? " 

"Susette  tried  to  reach  Margaret  and  I  took  the 
message.  Babs  was  ill — " 

"My  baby  ill!"  Lucy  cried,  springing  to  her  feet. 

"It's  nothing  serious  —  I  stopped  at  the  house  on  the 
way  down,  —  but  Susette  was  worried.  She  said  that 
you  inquired  something  about  '  Spicer's '  yesterday.  After 
what  you  wrote  me  I  was  anxious.  I  called  Auchester 
up  at  his  club,  and  the  motor  service  man  said  he  had 
hired  a  car  to  go  to  'Spicer's'.  Now  you  understand." 

She  relaxed  again  as  soon  as  he  reassured  her  regarding 
Babs.  "Did  you  hear  what  Mrs.  Channing  said  as  she 
went  out?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  not  concerned  with  her,"  he  insisted  with  a  slight 
show  of  impatience.  "Is  Auchester  still  here?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "but  you  are  concerned  with 
Mrs.  Channing,  whether  you  wish  to  be  or  not.  She 
thinks  that  you  and  I  have  dined  together." 

[211] 


THE    MOTH 


"I  care  nothing  about  what  she  thinks  or  does 
not  think  of  me.  Look  at  me,  Lucy.  What  about 
Auchester?" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  indignantly.  "You  too,  Ned? 
This  is  too  much!  I  came  here  to  dine  with  Captain 
Auchester  because  nobody  else  cares  whether  I  ever  dine 
or  not.  We  have  had  a  beautiful  evening  and  were  just 
leaving  when  we  ran  into  the  Channing  party.  There 
has  been  nothing  which  is  not  perfectly  proper,  and 
I  won't  stand  your  insinuations.  That  old  cat  has 
reason  to  hate  me  and  to  put  the  worst  possible  con- 
struction on  everything  I  do,  but  you  have  been  my 
friend  and  I  have  the  right  to  expect  something  better 
from  you." 

"It  is  because  I  am  your  friend  that  I  have  rushed 
here  as  fast  as  a  motor  could  bring  me,  to  give  you  the 
fullest  expression  friendship  can  make.  But  it  is  not 
'perfectly  proper'  for  you  to  be  here  alone  with  Captain 
Auchester  until  after  midnight,  and  you  know  it  is 
not." 

"Is  it  as  late  as  that?    I  had  no  idea  — 

"The  hour  makes  little  difference;   the  fact  remains." 

"Is  it  any  more  proper  for  me  to  be  here  alone  with 
you  than  with  him?" 

"Perhaps  not;  but  I  am  protecting  your  husband's 
interests— 

"You  have  no  right  to  suggest  that  Captain 
Auchester  is  less  considerate." 

"May  I  not  speak  for  myself?"  Auchester  interrupted 
calmly,  coming  toward  them  from  the  stairway. 

"There  will  be  ample  opportunity  for  you  to  do  so 
later,"  Cunningham  replied.  "Since  you  have  been  will- 
ing to  withhold  yourself  from  the  events  which  have  just 

[212] 


THE    MOTH 


been  happening,  your  patience  will  undoubtedly  serve  you 
until  tomorrow." 

"Of  course  you  understand  that  I  have  refrained  from 
taking  part  solely  in  the  interests  of  Mrs.  Spencer." 

"Then  you,  at  least,  appreciate  how  serious  this  is. 
Mrs.  Spencer  does  not." 

"  I  think  we  can  easily  explain  — 

"You  owe  me  no  explanation,  —  that  belongs  to  Mr. 
Spencer.  In  the  meantime  I  shall  see  to  it  that  she 
returns  to  him  without  further  delay." 

"I  am  going  back  with  Captain  Auchester,"  Lucy 
insisted  firmly. 

"You  are  going  back  with  me,"  Cunningham  replied 
with  finality.  "My  car  is  waiting." 

She  was  no  match  for  Cunningham  when  thus  deter- 
mined, but  still  was  in  no  mood  to  comply.  She  looked 
helplessly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"It  will  be  wiser  to  follow  Mr.  Cunningham's  advice," 
Auchester  said  quietly.  "This  is  no  place  for  discussion. 
Please  let  me  help  you  into  his  motor." 

"Mrs.  Spencer  requires  no  assistance  beyond  my  own," 
Cunningham  said  brusquely.  "Come,  Lucy,  we  are 
losing  time  which  may  prove  important." 

"May  I  call  at  your  office  tomorrow?"  Auchester 
asked  Cunningham. 

"You  may  call  whenever  you  like.  Whether  I  see  you 
or  not  depends  upon  circumstances." 

"There  are  certain  claims  which  one  gentleman  always 
has  upon  another,"  the  Captain  said  with  much  dignity. 

"If  your  claims  are  those  of  a  gentleman,  you  may  rest 
assured  that  I  shall  recognize  them." 

Lucy  had  risen,  and  without  waiting  for  either  of  the 
men  she  passed  out  of  the  door  and  quickly  seated  her- 

[213] 


THE    MOTH 


She  did  not  respond,  and  Cunningham  saw  that  she  was 
in  no  way  appeased. 

"After  tonight  you  may  call  our  friendship  ended  if 
you  choose,  but  until  I  have  completely  satisfied  the 
demands  which  it  makes  upon  me  I  cannot  conscientiously 
do  less  than  I  am  doing.  Your  impulses  make  you  weak, 
Lucy,  and  Heaven  knows  that  the  world  is  far  more  pitiless 
of  weakness  than  it  is  of  sin." 

"The  world  is  far  less  pitiless  than  you,"  she  exclaimed, 
her  heart  at  last  crying  out  in  its  suffering.  "You  sit 
there  in  your  complacency  and  try  to  break  me  on  the 
wheel.  You  shan't  do  it,  Ned  Cunningham.  It  isn't 
the  act  of  a  friend  and  it  isn't  manly.  I  know  I'm  weak, 
but  I  have  a  right  to  be  because  I'm  a  woman.  I  know 
that  I'm  a  creature  of  impulses,  but  they're  not  evil 
ones  and  they  do  no  one  any  harm.  You  can't  even  let 
me  enjoy  one  evening  with  a  friend  who  is  agreeable 
company,  after  weeks  of  almost  complete  isolation,  just 
because  this  friend  happens  to  be  a  man.  It  isn't  fair, 
Ned,  and  you  shan't  do  it." 

The  machine  turned  into  the  Spencers'  driveway. 

"Here  we  are,"  Cunningham  exclaimed,  making  no 
attempt  to  reply.  "My  one  hope  is  that  Vallie  may  still 
be  detained  on  board  the  'Sylph.' " 

"Oh,  that  won't  make  any  difference,"  Lucy  replied  in- 
differently. "  If  he  doesn't  hear  about  it  tonight,  Mrs. 
Channing  will  take  good  care  that  it  isn't  overlooked. 
Trust  her  for  that." 

Cunningham's  prayer  was  not  answered,  for  Vallie 
was  not  only  at  home,  but  evidently  awaited  Lucy's 
return.  The  engine  had  scarcely  come  to  a  standstill 
when  he  appeared  coming  toward  the  head  of  the  steps 
leading  from  the  piazza. 

[216] 


THE    MOTH 


"Don't  stop,"  Lucy  said  as  Ned  helped  her  out;  "I 
would  rather  have  you  go." 

"I  have  no  idea  of  running  away,"  he  insisted,  closing 
the  door  and  placing  his  hand  beneath  her  elbow  as  they 
walked  up  the  steps.  Spencer  came  forward  to  meet  them 
and  peered  into  Cunningham's  face. 

"Hullo,  Vallie,"  Ned  greeted  him  as  naturally  as  he 
could  in  the  face  of  an  overpowering  desire  to  seize  him 
by  the  throat  and  choke  back  his  insolence. 

"It's  you,  is  it?"  Spencer  replied  in  an  ugly  mood. 
"What  are  you  doing  here  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning?  " 

"What  you  ought  to  be  doing."  Cunningham  met  the 
issue  squarely,  and  his  retort  was  so  unexpectedly  direct 
that  Vallie  drew  back  with  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"Good-night,  Lucy,"  Cunningham  continued,  holding 
out  his  hand  and  paying  no  attention  to  Spencer.  "Mar- 
garet will  be  down  to  see  you  some  day  this  week." 

As  Lucy  turned  into  the  house  Cunningham  started 
toward  the  car,  but  Spencer  had  recovered  his  former 
belligerent  attitude.  "I'm  not  through  with  you  yet," 
he  said.  "What  do  you  mean  by  your  confounded 
impudence?" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  Cunningham  replied,  pausing  for  a 
moment.  "I  have  no  desire  to  be  disagreeable,  and  you 
have  no  right  to  be.  Let's  forget  it.  Good-night." 

"  It's  because  you  think  I'm  a  fool  that  you  run  me  like 
this,"  Vallie  continued.  "I've  let  you  and  the  other  men 
jolly  me  so  long  at  the  club  that  you  think  you  can  do 
anything  you  like  with  me,  but  there  are  limits.  I'm 
getting  tired  of  it,  and  the  sooner  you  understand  it  the 
better  for  all  concerned.  I  don't  intend  to  have  you  or 
any  other  man  trailing  around  my  wife  and  giving  people 

[217] 


THE    MOTH 


a  chance  to  talk  about  it.  Take  it  from  me,  it's  got  to 
stop." 

Cunningham  retraced  his  steps  until  he  stood  directly 
in  front  of  him.  "Look  here,  Spencer,"  he  said,  "if  you 
insist  on  prolonging  this  conversation  it  may  be  that 
you'll  hear  something  that  won't  be  pleasant.  I'm  a  fairly 
patient  man,  but  you're  getting  close  to  my  limitations. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it's  all  poppycock  as  far 
as  talk  about  Lucy  and  me  or  Lucy  and  any  other  man  is 
concerned.  If  you  don't  buck  up  and  remember  that  you 
have  a  wife,  and  give  her  something  to  think  about  besides 
herself,  you  can't  blame  her  if  she  does  do  something 
foolish,  just  to  break  the  monotony.  But  if  there's  any 
talk  going  around  about  any  woman,  it's  some  one  other 
than  Lucy,  and  the  man  in  the  case  doesn't  stand  very 
far  from  me  at  this  moment." 

"What  business  is  it  of  yours,  confound  you?" 

"None,  except  when  you  try  to  drag  some  one  else  into 
your  class.  Then  I  make  it  my  business." 

Spencer  laughed  disagreeably.  "As  a  matter  of  fact 
there  is  a  good  deal  more  talk  about  you  and  Lucy  than 
you  have  any  idea.  I  haven't  paid  any  attention  to  it, 
because  we've  been  friends.  But  I'm  not  a  fool,  and  some- 
times near-scandal  sounds  a  whole  lot  worse  than  the  real 
thing.  You  take  it  from  me  that  unless  you  cut  it  out 
the  worm  will  turn." 

"I  hope  it  will."  Cunningham's  disgust  gained  the 
better  of  his  judgment.  "I  have  great  respect  for 
worms  after  they  actually  do  turn,  and  very  little  until 
they  have  accomplished  the  metamorphosis.  Good-night." 


[218] 


XXIV 


WHEN  Auchester  called  at  Cunningham's  office 
the  following  morning  he  was  given  immediate 
audience.  In  spite  of  his  prejudice,  Cunning- 
ham had  discovered  something  in  the  man's  words  and 
manner  which  interested  him.  He  was  relieved,  the  even- 
ing before,  to  have  Spencer  vent  his  spleen  upon  his  head, 
for  that  of  course  could  do  no  possible  harm,  while  to 
associate  Auchester's  name  with  Lucy's  would  indeed  be 
serious.  He  congratulated  himself  upon  the  fortunate 
accident  which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  step  into  the 
breach,  and  he  was  sure  that  when  "the  child,"  as  he  so 
frequently  spoke  of  her,  had  time  to  think  things  over, 
she  would  be  as  grateful  to  him  as  she  was  now  incensed. 
But  whatever  the  result,  Cunningham  knew  that  he  had 
done  his  duty  and  there  was  a  certain  grim  satisfaction 
in  that.  Margaret  would  be  interested  in  this  latest 
denouement,  and  he  regretted  that  in  his  haste  to  get  down 
to  his  office  this  morning  there  had  not  been  time  to  give 
her  the  details.  Now  Auchester  had  come,  and  he  would 
have  a  fuller  story  to  repeat  when  he  returned  home  that 
evening. 

Cunningham  was  mistaken  if  he  expected  the  Captain 
to  appear  as  an  embarrassed  man.     Auchester's  quiet 

[219] 


THE    MOTH 


dignity  was  one  of  his  greatest  assets,  and  his  whole 
bearing  marked  him  as  a  man  of  breeding.  This,  however, 
Cunningham  discounted  during  that  first  impression  as 
being  perhaps  the  natural  expression  of  his  army  training. 
A  man  may  carry  himself  with  a  certain  air  and  yet  be 
every  inch  a  rascal,  and  Ned  was  determined  to  tear  aside 
the  mask  which  he  felt  convinced  served  as  a  polished 
veneer  to  a  scarred  interior. 

His  greeting  was  cold,  yet  there  was  no  lack  of  civility. 
The  Captain  evidently  expected  this  and  passed  it  over 
lightly.  He  was  deliberate  as  he  laid  down  his  hat  and 
cane,  and  drew  his  chair  closer  to  where  Cunningham  sat 
in  front  of  a  large  table,  covered  with  legal  documents. 

"I  appreciate  your  courtesy  in  seeing  me  after  the 
unfortunate  misunderstanding  of  last  evening,"  Auchester 
began. 

"Was  there  any  misunderstanding?"  Cunningham  de- 
manded bluntly.  "The  affair  seemed  to  me  to  be  only 
too  clear." 

"It  is  natural  that  you  should  put  that  interpretation 
upon  it.  The  occasion  of  my  call  this  morning  is  to  place 
you  in  possession  of  the  real  facts." 

"As  I  said  last  night,  your  explanations  belong  to  Mr. 
Spencer  rather  than  to  me." 

It  was  evident  that  the  Captain's  ideas  on  this  point 
failed  to  coincide.  "When  the  husband  of  the  lady  in 
question  disregards  his  responsibilities  and  another  man 
assumes  them,"  he  said  with  significant  emphasis,  "may 
I  not  conclude  that  the  other  man  is  at  least  interested 
in  the  real  facts?" 

"I  have  assumed  no  responsibilities  beyond  that  of  a 
friend,"  Cunningham  insisted. 

Auchester  looked  at  him  a  moment  deliberately,  with 
[220] 


THE    MOTH 


a  quiet  smile.  "You  are  a  courageous  man,  Mr.  Cunning- 
ham, or  else  singularly  inexperienced  with  the  world.  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  decide  which." 

"I  do  not  flatter  myself  that  you  took  the  trouble  to 
call  upon  me  for  the  pleasure  of  exchanging  personal 
impressions." 

"No,"  the  Captain  admitted,  brought  by  Cunningham's 
remark  to  his  definite  purpose;  "I  came  to  tell  you  that 
last  evening  I  made  Mrs.  Spencer  a  definite  offer  of 
marriage." 

Cunningham  gazed  at  him  incredulously.  "In  civilized 
countries  like  America  we  do  not  practise  polyandry," 
he  said  dryly. 

Auchester  appeared  not  to  notice  the  sarcasm.  "Un- 
fortunately I  was  laboring  under  a  misapprehension  as 
far  as  Mrs.  Spencer  is  concerned,"  he  continued. 

"She  felt  that  even  one  husband  at  a  time  was  one 
too  many,  I  imagine,"  Cunningham  laughed.  "Come, 
Auchester,  I  expected  a  better  story  from  you  than 
that!" 

"Since  circumstances  seemed  to  place  me  in  the  wrong 
last  evening,  Mr.  Cunningham,  I  refuse  to  take  offense, 
but  may  I  not  ask  that  our  conversation  be  treated  with 
the  seriousness  which  the  occasion  demands?" 

There  was  a  flash  in  the  Captain's  eye  which  Cunning- 
ham noted,  and  his  tone  contained  a  certain  authority 
which  compelled  respect. 

"I  beg  you  to  continue,"  Cunningham  said  quietly. 

"I  have  been  aware  of  the  domestic  infelicities  of  the 
Spencers,"  Auchester  went  on;  "but  the  personal  desire  to 
take  a  part  of  them  upon  my  own  shoulders  'is  of  more 
recent  date.  My  offer  of  marriage  was  made  with  a  full 
knowledge  of  the  circumstances,  and  with  the  utmost 

[221] 


THE    MOTH 


respect  for  Mrs.  Spencer.  One  could  scarcely  entertain 
less  than  that  toward  the  woman  he  wishes  to  make  his 
wife,  could  he?" 

"You  will  have  to  make  it  clearer  still  before  I  under- 
stand." Cunningham  failed  to  follow  him.  "How  can  an 
offer  of  marriage  be  made  to  a  woman  already  married 
without  in  itself  being  an  affront?" 

"I  will  answer  your  question  by  asking  another.  Does 
marriage  in  its  true  sense  exist  incases  like  the  Spencers'?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Does  the  mere  fact  that  a  legal  ceremony  was  per- 
formed sometime  in  the  dim  past  justify  the  living  to- 
gether of  a  man  and  a  woman  who  are  no  more  to  each 
other  than  utter  strangers?" 

"You  have  a  large  contract  on  your  hands  if  you  intend 
to  remedy  our  existing  marriage  law^s,"  Cunningham 
replied.  "Is  that  your  idea?" 

"I  have  no  interest  in  them  whatever  except  as  they 
affect  me,"  Auchester  explained.  "In  my  opinion  every 
one  should  settle  this  all-important  matter  for  himself. 
My  own  country  has  laws  even  more  cruel  than  yours, 
and  in  a  question  which  so  vitally  affects  me  I  decline  to 
consider  myself  bound  by  them." 

"Just  what  was  your  proposition  to  Mrs.  Spencer,  — 
if  I  may  ask?" 

"That  she  leave  her  husband  and  go  with  me  out  into 
the  daylight.  That  if  a  divorce  could  be  secured,  we 
would  then  be  married;  if  not,  we  would  be  law  unto 
ourselves." 

"Then  you  would  think  it  wise  to  have  a  ceremony 
performed  as  soon  as  it  could  legally  be  done?" 

"Certainly.  I  do  not  object  to  the  law  when  it  operates 
justly;  it  is  the  injustice  which  I  would  remedy." 

[  222  ] 


THE    MOTH 


"A  dangerous  doctrine,  Captain." 

"I  learned  it  as  a  soldier,  Mr.  Cunningham;  there  are 
times  when  martial  law  is  imperative." 

"It  is  less  dangerous  for  the  man  than  for  the 
woman,"  Cunningham  continued.  "Had  you  thought 
of  that?" 

"Yes;  and  the  condition  can  only  exist  where  both 
have  the  same  moral  standard,  —  far  higher,  to  my  mind, 
than  the  conventional  code." 

"That  was  the  misapprehension  you  were  laboring 
under?" 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Spencer  appeared  to  have  the  same 
disregard  for  conventions  which  I  have;  as  a  matter  of 
fact  she  only  thinks  she  disregards  them:  they  are  as 
fearsome  to  her  as  to  others.  Then  again,  I  believed 
that  she  reciprocated  my  affection.  In  this  I  was  also 
wrong." 

"All  this  developed  during  your  dinner  at  'Spicer's'?" 

"Yes;  your  coming  had  no  bearing  whatever  upon  the 
situation.  Mrs.  Spencer  had  made  her  position  quite 
clear,  and  I  had  told  her  that  as  long  as  she  held  to  it  I 
was  bound  to  respect  her  feelings.  She,  at  all  events, 
fully  realizes  that  nothing  I  said  was  spoken  in  other  than 
the  deepest  honor  which  a  man  may  show  a  woman.  We 
were  about  to  leave  when  we  ran  into  some  people  whom 
she  did  not  care  to  meet.  Then  you  came  in,  and  from 
that  point  you  know  more  than  I." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  the  two  men  after 
Auchester  ceased  speaking.  Every  word  the  Captain 
uttered  conveyed  an  impression  of  manly  sincerity,  and 
during  the  interview  Cunningham's  attitude  toward  him 
underwent  a  complete  change.  He  was  dangerous  still, 
but  only  because  of  his  inherent  qualities  of  upright  man- 

[223] 


THE    MOTH 


hood,  which  stood  out  clearly  even  though  his  code  of 
life  differed  so  widely  from  his  listener's  and  from  that  of 
the  world  at  large.  Cunningham's  only  wonder  now  was 
that  Lucy  had  been  able  to  resist  him  at  all. 

"May  I  ask  who  you  are? "  Cunningham  said  abruptly, 
breaking  the  silence. 

"Lord  Annersley,  of  Annersley  Manor,  Devonshire." 

"And  why  are  you  here  incog  ?  " 

"Auchester  was  my  name  before  I  succeeded  to  my 
brother's  title,"  he  explained.  "I  am  in  Boston  on  con- 
fidential business  for  the  house  of  Bennett  Brothers, 
and  we  don't  usually  mix  business  and  titles.  I  have  a 
dozen  letters  of  introduction,  but  I  have  chosen  to  win 
my  friends  myself,  which  has  left  me  less  restricted  in 
my  personal  affairs." 

"Since  last  evening,  then,  you  have  abandoned  your 
intentions  regarding  Mrs.  Spencer?"  Cunningham  re- 
turned to  the  earlier  portion  of  the  conversation. 

"No,"  was  the  frank  response.  "I  have  never  yet 
abandoned  anything  which  I  undertook;  but  sometimes 
I  have  had  to  wait." 

"Surely  your  family  would  not  receive  her  under  the 
circumstances  you  suggest?" 

"  My  plan  was  to  live  in  Italy  until  the  divorce  could  be 
secured.  After  that  —  I  am  the  head  of  my  family." 

"How  is  it  that  you,  an  officer  in  the  British  Army, 
are  so  indifferent  to  conventions?  I  had  supposed  that 
unless  a  soldier  rigidly  observed  them  he  got  plenty  of 
service  but  little  social  recognition." 

"You  are  entirely  right,  Mr.  Cunningham.  It  has 
been  service  that  I  have  always  sought.  It  is,  per- 
haps, natural  -that  every  man  should  seek  that  which 
he  lacks." 

[2241 


THE    MOTH 


Cunningham  required  no  credentials  to  know  that 
Auchester  belonged  to  the  aristocracy.  The  quiet 
yet  forceful  dignity  of  his  manner,  the  flash  in  his  eye 
when  he  demanded  a  hearing,  the  masterly  note  in 
his  voice  as  he  spoke  these  last  words,  —  all  marked 
him  as  a  man  who  knew  himself  to  be  secure  in  his 
position. 

"Then,  as  I  understand  it,  you  would  still  take  Mrs. 
Spencer  with  you  to  Europe  if  she  would  go." 

"Only  when  convinced  upon  the  two  points  I  mention," 
Auchester  corrected.  "A  woman  whom  conventions  can 
terrify  would  be  utterly  wretched  under  unconventional 
conditions,  and  unless  her  affection  centered  wholly  in 
me  it  would  be  merely  exchanging  one  impossible  situation 
for  another." 

"Auchester,"  said  Cunningham  bluntly,  holding  out 
his  hand,  "I've  done  you  an  injustice  and  I'm  sorry  for  it. 
Personally,  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,  but  you  have  as 
much  right  to  your  opinion  as  I  have  to  mine,  —  espe- 
cially since  you  recognize  the  importance  of  respecting  the 
ideas  of  others,  as  you  have  done  with  Mrs.  Spencer. 
But,  frankly,  if  you  continue  to  live  up  to  your  present 
position,  I  don't  believe  you  will  succeed  in  this  under- 
taking. Mrs.  Spencer  is  a  woman,  and  being  a  woman  she 
is  dependent  upon  conventions  whether  she  thinks  so  or 
not.  What  you  have  already  told  me  bears  out  my  state- 
ment. A  man  can  afford  to  be  more  independent  of  them. 
Look  back  over  similar  cases  you  have  known  or  read  about : 
how  many  of  the  women  have  been  happy?  No,  Auches- 
ter, say  what  you  will,  we  men  can't  put  ourselves  in 
woman's  place,  and  such  retribution  as  may  come  as  a 
result  of  breaking  society's  laws  falls  on  her  far  more 
heavily  than  it  does  on  us." 
15  [225J 


THE    MOTH 


"I  thank  you  for  hearing  me  through  so  patiently," 
Aucnester  said,  rising  to  go. 

"I'm  obliged  to  you  for  coming,"  Cunningham  replied, 
shaking  his  hand  cordially.  "If  you  will  forgive  my  early 
prejudice,  I  hope  I  may  see  more  of  you." 

"It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  me,"  the  Captain  responded, 
bowing.  "Until  then  —  good  morning." 

Cunningham  was  full  of  the  affair  when  he  returned 
home  that  evening,  and  went  at  once  to  Margaret's  room, 
wondering  that  she  was  not  at  the  door  as  usual  to  greet 
him.  He  found  her  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  window  with 
a  book  in  her  lap,  but  judging  by  the  small  number  of 
leaves  turned  she  had  either  just  sat  down  or  had  made 
little  progress.  He  saw  from  her  face  as  she  looked  up 
that  she  was  worried,  and  he  hastened  forward. 

"What's  the  matter,  Peggy?"  he  asked  with  solicitude. 
"Aren't  you  feeling  well?" 

"Draw  up  a  chair,  Ned,"  she  replied,  leaving  his  ques- 
tions unanswered.  "Something  serious  has  happened, 
and  I  must  know  more  about  it." 

Anxious  lines  came  in  Cunningham's  face  as  he  sat  down 
near  her.  "Don't  keep  me  in  suspense,"  he  urged. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  were  motoring  with  Lucy  last 
evening?  " 

"Is  that  all!"  he  exclaimed  with  relief.  "If  that  is  the 
trouble  I  can  brush  it  away  like  a  straw." 

Then  he  rehearsed  the  events  of  the  previous  even- 
ing from  the  time  Susette  had  telephoned  until  he  had 
returned  Lucy  to  her  home,  and  from  this  point  he 
continued  what  he  considered  the  amazing  story  of 
Auchester.  Margaret  listened  attentively  until  he  had 
finished. 

"There,  —  that  straightens  that  all  out,  doesn't  it?" 
[226] 


he  asked  confidently.     "Aren't  you  ashamed  to  hav^  let 
it  worry  you  even  for  a  moment?" 

"No,  Ned;  it  doesn't  straighten  things  out  at  all.  You 
have  committed  a  grave  indiscretion,  —  as  grave  as  any 
you  have  cautioned  Lucy  against;  and  I  tremble  for  the 
possible  consequences." 

"Nonsense,"  he  replied  half-impatiently;  "I  thought 
she  was  trapped  there  with  Auchester,  and  I  did  only  what 
any  friend  would  have  done  under  the  circumstances." 

"  You  consider  that  you  owred  that  to  Lucy  as  a  friend?  " 

"Of  course." 

"Then  what  do  you  owe  me,  Ned,  as  your  wife?  Have 
you  a  right  to  risk  your  reputation  in  the  community  and 
my  happiness  in  order  to  rescue  some  other  woman  from 
a  fancied  danger?" 

"What  possible  risk  could  there  be  to  you  or  to  me?" 
he  demanded  incredulously.  "As  the  affair  turned  out 
there  was  no  risk  to  any  one." 

"If  you  can't  see  it  yourself  then  I  must  see  it  for  you." 
It  was  the  first  time  that  Margaret  had  ever  reproved 
him.  "No  man  can  be  mixed  up  in  an  affair  like  this 
without  having  it  reflect  on  him,  and  if  the  man  happens 
to  be  married  then  his  wife  must  suffer  with  him.  We 
can't  tell  yet  how  much  this  may  amount  to,  but  there 
is  enough  in  it  to  raise  a  wretched  scandal." 

Cunningham  was  forced  to  accept  the  seriousness  of 
the  situation  by  Margaret's  all  too  evident  anxiety.  "I 
can't  believe  it,  Peggy,"  he  said,  "but  it's  enough  that 
you  feel  as  you  do  about  it.  What  has  brought  it  all 
up?" 

She  handed  him  a  letter  which  had  been  delivered  to 
Ler  by  messenger. 

"Shall  I  read  it?"  he  asked. 
[227] 


THE    MOTH 


"I  thank  you  for  hearing  me  through  so  patiently," 
Aucnester  said,  rising  to  go. 

"I'm  obliged  to  you  for  coming,"  Cunningham  replied, 
shaking  his  hand  cordially.  "If  you  will  forgive  my  early 
prejudice,  I  hope  I  may  see  more  of  you." 

"It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  me,"  the  Captain  responded, 
bowing.  "Until  then  —  good  morning." 

Cunningham  was  full  of  the  affair  when  he  returned 
home  that  evening,  and  went  at  once  to  Margaret's  room, 
wondering  that  she  was  not  at  the  door  as  usual  to  greet 
him.  He  found  her  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  window  with 
a  book  in  her  lap,  but  judging  by  the  small  number  of 
leaves  turned  she  had  either  just  sat  down  or  had  made 
little  progress.  He  saw  from  her  face  as  she  looked  up 
that  she  was  worried,  and  he  hastened  forward. 

"What's  the  matter,  Peggy?"  he  asked  with  solicitude. 
"Aren't  you  feeling  well?" 

"Draw  up  a  chair,  Ned,"  she  replied,  leaving  his  ques- 
tions unanswered.  "Something  serious  has  happened, 
and  I  must  know  more  about  it." 

Anxious  lines  came  in  Cunningham's  face  as  he  sat  down 
near  her.  "Don't  keep  me  in  suspense,"  he  urged. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  were  motoring  with  Lucy  last 
evening?  " 

"Is  that  all!"  he  exclaimed  with  relief.  "If  that  is  the 
trouble  I  can  brush  it  away  like  a  straw." 

Then  he  rehearsed  the  events  of  the  previous  even- 
ing from  the  time  Susette  had  telephoned  until  he  had 
returned  Lucy  to  her  home,  and  from  this  point  he 
continued  what  he  considered  the  amazing  story  of 
Auchester.  Margaret  listened  attentively  until  he  had 
finished. 

"There,  —  that  straightens  that  all  out,  doesn't  it?" 
[2261 


THE    MOTH 


he  asked  confidently.     "Aren't  you  ashamed  to  have  let 
it  worry  you  even  for  a  moment?" 

"No,  Ned;  it  doesn't  straighten  things  out  at  all.  You 
have  committed  a  grave  indiscretion,  —  as  grave  as  any 
you  have  cautioned  Lucy  against;  and  I  tremble  for  the 
possible  consequences." 

"Nonsense,"  he  replied  half-impatiently;  "I  thought 
she  was  trapped  there  with  Auchester,  and  I  did  only  what 
any  friend  would  have  done  under  the  circumstances." 

"You  consider  that  you  owed  that  to  Lucy  as  a  friend? " 

"Of  course." 

"Then  what  do  you  owe  me,  Ned,  as  your  wife?  Have 
you  a  right  to  risk  your  reputation  in  the  community  and 
my  happiness  in  order  to  rescue  some  other  woman  from 
a  fancied  danger?" 

"What  possible  risk  could  there  be  to  you  or  to  me?" 
he  demanded  incredulously.  "As  the  affair  turned  out 
there  was  no  risk  to  any  one." 

"If  you  can't  see  it  yourself  then  I  must  see  it  for  you." 
It  was  the  first  time  that  Margaret  had  ever  reproved 
him.  "No  man  can  be  mixed  up  in  an  affair  like  this 
without  having  it  reflect  on  him,  and  if  the  man  happens 
to  be  married  then  his  wife  must  suffer  with  him.  We 
can't  tell  yet  how  much  this  may  amount  to,  but  there 
is  enough  in  it  to  raise  a  wretched  scandal." 

Cunningham  was  forced  to  accept  the  seriousness  of 
the  situation  by  Margaret's  all  too  evident  anxiety.  "I 
can't  believe  it,  Peggy,"  he  said,  "but  it's  enough  that 
you  feel  as  you  do  about  it.  What  has  brought  it  all 
up?" 

She  handed  him  a  letter  which  had  been  delivered  to 
her  by  messenger. 

"Shall  I  read  it?"  he  asked. 
[2271 


THE    MOTH 


He  took  the  letter  from  the  envelope  as  she  nodded,  and 
read: 

DEAR  MRS.  CUNNINGHAM:  Ned  and  Lucy  were  motoring 
last  evening  until  one  o'clock.  You  may  have  no  objections, 
but  I  have.  Until  now  I  have  not  taken  exceptions  to  their 
intimacy  because  of  the  friendship  between  the  families,  but 
the  limit  has  been  reached.  I  trust  that  I  may  not  have  to 
take  further  action. — VALENTINE  SPENCER. 

"The  insulting  little  whelp!"  Cunningham  exclaimed 
indignantly.  "I'll  make  him  eat  every  word  of  that!" 

"That  would  hardly  improve  matters,"  Margaret  re- 
plied. "He  is  in  a  position  where  he  can  make  things  un- 
comfortable for  all  concerned.  The  question  is  whether 
or  not  he  will." 

"He  wouldn't  dare!  You  see  from  what  I've  told  you 
how  absolutely  unfounded  the  whole  story  is." 

Margaret's  eyes  fell  and  she  sighed  deeply.  When  she 
looked  up  again  they  were  filled  with  tears.  "Oh,  my 
husband,"  she  said,  the  words  coming  straight  from  her 
heart,  "what  can  I  say  to  open  your  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
a  knowledge  of  your  profession  is  not  everything?  What 
will  make  you  understand  that  you  are  no  more  privileged 
to  defy  conventions  than  this  foolish  girl  who  seems  de- 
termined to  bruise  her  head  against  the  wall?  It  is  not 
enough  that  I  understand,  for  the  world  chooses  always 
to  accept  the  worst.  I  begged  you  to  go  no  further  in  your 
platonic  protectorship,  I  warned  you  of  the  dangers,  but 
you  brushed  everything  one  side,  and  now  we  are  face  to 
face  with  the  fact  itself.  You  say  that  the  whole  story  is 
unfounded:  is  it?  Mr.  Spencer  evidently  doesn't  know 
it  all  yet,  and  it  is  just  as  well  that  he  doesn't.  You  were 

[2281 


THE    MOTH 


seen  alone  with  Lucy  at  midnight  at  a  public  roadhouse, 
you  went  off  together  in  your  motor, — is  there  any  lawyer 
who  need  ask  a  better  case  of  circumstantial  evidence 
than  that?" 

Cunningham  bowed  his  head.  "Yes,"  he  acknowledged, 
"you  are  right,  —  as  you  always  are.  I've  been  a  fool, 
but  I  can't  believe  that  anything  uncomfortable  will 
come  of  it.  What  concerns  me  most  is  that  you  have  been 
made  unhappy.  A  world  full  of  Lucys  and  their  troubles 
isn't  worth  a  moment's  anxiety  to  you,  dear.  You  believe 
me,  don't  you,  Peggy?" 

"Of  course,"  she  answered;  "that  doesn't  enter  into 
the  question  at  all.  But  you  are  so  upright  and  strong 
and  brave  that  you  don't  realize  how  rotten  the  world  is 
around  you.  Suspicion  loves  a  shining  mark,  and  your 
reputation  means  so  much  to  us  both  that  you  must  not 
take  such  awful  risks." 

He  reached  over  and  took  her  hand,  pressing  it  to  his 
lips.  "Peggy  dear,"  he  said,  "a  man's  knowledge  is 
pitifully  weak  compared  with  a  woman's  intuition.  I 
am  still  confident  that  nothing  will  come  of  this,  but  that 
doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  you  are  right.  Forgive  me,  and 
believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  shall  do  my  best  to  practise 
what  I  preach." 


[2291 


XXV 


THE  letter  which  Spencer  sent  to  Margaret  was  but 
a  partial  outlet  of  a  spirit  outraged  almost  to  the 
point  of  explosion.  Importuned  by  his  creditors, 
harassed  by  financial  demands  from  a  quarter  which  at 
all  costs  must  be  kept  in  the  background,  balked  by  Lucy 
in  his  expectations  to  secure  sums  sufficient  to  relieve  the 
strain,  —  it  was  more  than  his  nature  could  endure  to  be 
finally  ignored  by  his  wife  and,  as  he  expressed  it,  bully- 
ragged by  Cunningham.  Such  self-respect  as  he  possessed 
demanded  that  something  be  done,  and  the  first  thing 
which  suggested  relief  to  his  offended  mind  was  to  write 
Margaret.  He  really  had  little  idea  that  the  letter  would 
even  cause  annoyance,  but,  after  the  few  moments'  con- 
versation he  had  enjoyed  with  her,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
perhaps  she  might  read  between  the  lines  what  a  deeply 
injured  man  he  was,  and  at  least  be  sympathetic.  Toward 
Cunningham  he  now  entertained  the  deepest  resentment, 
but  the  encounter  on  the  piazza  showed  him  that  upon 
anything  like  equal  terms  he  was  certain  to  be  worsted. 
The  lawyer's  trained  mind,  always  in  readiness  for  action, 
was  too  great  a  handicap  to  overcome;  and  after  his  recent 
experiences  Spencer  did  not  relish  further  humiliation. 

It  was  while  in  this  uncomfortable  state  of  unrest  that 
the  first  definite  rumors  of  the  affair  at  "Spicer's"  reached 

[230] 


THE    MOTH 


his  ears.  When  he  greeted  Lucy  and  Cunningham  so 
savagely  upon  their  return  it  had  not  seriously  occurred 
to  him  that  he  had  other  than  general  grounds  for  com- 
plaint, and  his  attitude  was  simply  an  expression  of  ordi- 
nary ill-humor.  Cunningham's  position  in  the  community, 
his  congenial  home  life,  his  character  and  bearing  as 
a  man,  —  all  removed  him  hi  Spencer's  mind  from  that 
class  of  men  whose  names  could  ever  be  associated  with 
anything  not  wholly  honorable.  In  fact  this  was  Vallie's 
chief  grudge  against  him.  He  knew  that  Lucy  had  often 
measured  them  up  against  each  other,  and  he  had  no  doubt 
that  her  present  attitude  was  either  due  to  Cunningham's 
advice  or  a  direct  result  of  the  unequal  comparison.  So, 
when  rumor  said  that  Lucy  had  dined  with  him  in  a  private 
room  at  "Spicer's,"  and  Spencer  found  that  people  other 
than  himself  were  commenting  upon  the  fact,  he  saw  in  it 
ah1  only  an  opportunity  to  make  Lucy  uncomfortable  and 
possibly  to  reach  Cunningham  through  her.  In  the  light 
of  later  developments  he  regretted  that  the  letter  had 
been  sent  to  Margaret  so  prematurely:  it  would  make 
far  better  reading  now. 

Lucy  had  been  fairly  successsful  in  avoiding  him  since 
the  evening  in  question,  but  a  house  has  only  four  walls, 
and  there  is  a  limited  number  of  exits  and  entrances 
which  may  be  used  with  self-respect.  In  her  own  mind 
she  had  no  reason  for  keeping  apart  from  him  except 
the  fact  that  even  the  sight  of  him  caused  an  inward 
resentment  which  made  her  almost  ill.  Still,  when  the 
moment  came  for  him  to  make  the  issue  he  had  determined 
upon,  he  knew  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  the 
opportunity. 

The  looms  in  Lucy's  mill  of  life  were  weaving  fast,  but 
the  patterns  were  ludicrously  grotesque.  The  long  stretch 

[231] 


THE    MOTH 


of  gay  colors  had  yielded  to  somber  shades  of  drab; 
then,  as  suddenly,  they  shifted  to  a  bright  variation,  only 
to  change  again  to  neutral  tones;  but  the  colorless  drab 
shades  did  not  return.  The  effect  of  the  brief  exhilaration 
still  remained,  tempered  now  by  the  sober  reality  which 
later  developments  had  brought.  Her  old  friends  still 
stood  by  her,  and  Cunningham,  even  though  he  offended, 
had  evidenced  his  friendliness.  All  this  encouraged  her, 
and  the  seriousness  which  came  as  a  reaction  proved  agree- 
able rather  than  otherwise.  During  the  days  which  fol- 
lowed the  tempestuous  home-coming,  a  calm  had  entered 
into  her  life  which  she  did  not  analyze,  but  which  brought 
with  it  a  strange  relief.  It  was  good  to  be  liked,  as  the 
men  showed  so  plainly  they  did  like  her;  it  was  good  to 
be  scolded  by  so  dear  a  friend  as  Ned  whether  she  deserved 
it  or  not.  And  beyond  all  this  she  was  buoyed  up  by  the 
unexpected  experience  with  Auchester.  With  her  eyes 
closed  she  could  still  see  the  straight,  stalwart  figure 
standing  before  her;  beyond  all  other  sounds  she  could 
hear  the  declaration  of  his  love  and  the  brave,  manly 
defense  of  his  position;  more  penetrating  than  any  sensa- 
tion sheiiad  ever  experienced  she  could  feel  the  pressure 
of  his  lips  against  her  own.  She  had  not  even  yet  asked 
herself  if  she  loved  him;  it  was  enough  to  know  that  she 
was  loved. 

This  afternoon  she  wandered  off  the  piazza,  down  into 
a  shady  portion  of  the  garden,  finding  there  an  intangible 
reminder  of  a  red-letter  day.  Sitting  beneath  the  great 
overspreading  oak,  she  read  and  thought,  unconscious 
of  the  passing  time  or  that  she  was  alone.  At  length  a 
shout  of  childish  voices  roused  her  from  the  reverie  as 
Larry  and  Babs  bounded  into  view,  the  advance  guard  of 
Susette  and  the  supper  tray.  When  they  discovered  that 

1232] 


THE    MOTH 


their  rendezvous  was  already  occupied,  all  three  came  to 
an  abrupt  halt. 

"Pardon,  madame,"  Susette  apologized;  "I  will  take 
the  children  to  the  piazza." 

"No,"  Lucy  said  quickly;  "we  will  all  have  supper 
together,  right  here." 

"Hurrah!"  Larry  cried  impulsively,  but  still  somewhat 
incredulously;  "you  will  eat  supper  with  us?" 

"Yes,"  she  smiled,  holding  out  her  arms;  "mother  is 
oh!  so  hungry!  Will  you  see  that  she  gets  enough?" 

"I  will,"  the  diminutive  Babs  assured  her,  as  both 
children  came  forward.  "If  there  isn't  enough,  Larry 
may  go  without." 

Susette  spread  the  little  table,  unloading  the  tray  while 
the  eyes  of  her  charges  watched  every  movement. 

"You  may  have  my  strawberry  jam,"  Larry  announced 
generously. 

"Humph!"  exclaimed  Babs,  "that's  nothing,  —  you 
know  you  don't  like  jam." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  faltered;   "only  I'm  sick  of  it." 

"There  isn't  any  plate  for  mother,"  Larry  continued, 
quite  willing  to  turn  the  conversation,  "nor  any  spoon 
nor  any  napkin." 

"I'll  get  them,"  Susette  said,  starting  for  the  house. 

"No;  Larry  and  Babs  must  feed  mother,"  Lucy 
urged;  "it  will  taste  much  better." 

So  the  supper  proceeded,  —  supper  for  the  children, 
play  for  the  mother-heart  which  warmed  under  the  un- 
usual experience.  Babs  was  the  dignified  member  of  the 
party,  correcting  the  table  manners  of  the  others  and 
completely  living  up  to  her  self-assumed  responsibility. 
Then,  with  the  creature-necessities  provided  for,  the 
animal  instinct  for  play  became  assertive.  As  Susette 

[2331 


THE    MOTH 


cleared  away  the  relics  of  the  repast,  Larry  turned  to  his 
mother. 

"Come  on  down  to  the  beach,"  he  invited  hesitatingly. 

"Oh,  please!"  Babs  echoed,  seizing  Lucy's  hand. 

From  force  of  habit  she  started  to  make  some  excuse, 
but  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  sudden  desire  to  be  with 
them  took  possession  of  her.  Why  not?  With  the  quick- 
ness of  childhood  to  sense  unspoken  thoughts,  Babs  tugged 
at  her  hand  and  Lucy  rose  to  her  feet.  "Why  not?"  she 
said  to  herself.  To  little  Babs  she  answered,  "Will  you 
teach  mother  all  your  games?" 

"Mother's  coming!  mother's  coming!"  cried  the  de- 
lighted Babs,  releasing  the  hand  and  dancing  about  for 

joy- 

"Susette,"  Larry  shouted  to  the  returning  figure, 
"mother's  going  down  on  the  beach  with  us!" 

Babs  again  took  Lucy's  hand  and  slyly  kissed  it.  Why 
was  it  that  the  touch  of  those  baby  lips  went  straight  to 
Lucy's  heart,  causing  her  to  sink  upon  the  grass  and  press 
the  little  figure  to  her  breast?  There  are  more  strange 
changes  in  the  chemistry  of  the  spirit  than  can  be  found 
within  the  laboratory  of  the  scientist.  Else  why  should 
the  joy -tears  in  Lucy's  eyes  transform  her  in  that  instant 
from  the  moth  fluttering  about  the  flame  of  life  into  a 
woman  capable  of  being  a  part  of  life  itself?  Excuse 
herself  from  responding  to  that  appeal!  No  power  on 
earth  could  have  prevented  her  at  that  moment  from 
embracing  the  opportunity. 

As  Lucy  had  said,  her  summer  had  been  a  long  succes- 
sion of  waves,  and  whenever  she  found  herself  carried  to 
the  heights  on  the  crest  of  one,  she  knew  that  another  was 
only  awaiting  its  opportunity  to  dash  away  the  insecure 
foundation  upon  which  she  rested,  and  to  swamp  her  in 

[234] 


THE    MOTH 


its  undertow.  It  had  happened  so  often  now  that  she 
came  to  look  for  it;  so  when,  after  her  play  with  the 
children,  she  found  that  Vallie  had  returned  home,  she 
simply  sighed  wearily  and  wondered  what  particular  form 
his  generally  disagreeable  mood  would  take. 

The  time  had  passed  for  dissembling,  and  neither  one 
made  any  effort  to  converse  during  the  trying  period  of 
dinner.  Lucy's  pride  prevented  her  from  openly  avoiding 
him,  for  she  felt  that  this  action  would  in  some  way  be  a 
tacit  admission  that  she  had  something  to  conceal;  but 
at  the  earliest  possible  moment  she  silently  rose  from  the 
table  and  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Spencer  demanded.  "I  have 
something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

"Down  on  the  beach,"  she  replied,  moving  toward  the 
piazza. 

"I'd  rather  talk  to  you  up  here." 

"You'll  find  me  on  the  beach,"  she  said  firmly,  without 
pausing. 

Spencer  followed  closely  behind  as  she  passed  through 
the  garden  and  down  the  ivy-grown  stone  steps  leading 
to  the  little  sandy  beach  below.  Something  drew  her  back 
to  the  scene  of  her  afternoon's  experience,  something  in 
that  experience  seemed  to  promise  her  protection.  She 
proceeded  as  if  unconscious  of  her  husband's  proximity, 
while  he,  angered  still  further  by  her  apparent  indiffer- 
ence, fumed  disagreeably  in  her  wake.  Once  on  the  beach 
she  stood  still  and  looked  out  across  the  water.  The 
red  moon  was  just  rising  above  the  horizon  line,  the  sky 
had  not  yet  lost  the  last  reflections  from  the  sunken  sun, 
a  faint  breeze  cooled  the  atmosphere,  but  was  not  enough 
to  make  impression  upon  the  surface  of  the  sea,  which 
beat  gently  and  peacefully  with  mathematical  rhythm 

[2351 


THE    MOTH 


upon  the  shore.  What  right  had  discordant  elements  to 
enter  here?  Lucy's  heart  cried  out  against  it,  —  why 
should  not  Nature,  at  peace  with  itself,  rise  up  to  pre- 
vent such  sacrilegious  human  intrusion? 

Then  she  turned  to  the  trailer  behind  her.  "There's 
a  rock  over  here  where  I  may  sit,"  she  said  with  a  total 
lack  of  feeling  in  her  voice.  "Your  conversations  are 
such  that  I  enjoy  them  better  sitting  down.  What  is  it 
this  time,  —  the  odious  money  question  again?" 

"No;   I've  given  that  up  — 

"You  might  as  well,"  she  interrupted;  "there's  nothing 
more  to  say  concerning  that." 

"I  want  to  know  about  you  and  Cunningham  at 
'Spicer's  '  last  week,"  he  said  bluntly. 

Lucy  looked  at  him  curiously.  This  was  a  new  variety 
after  all.  The  tone  in  his  voice  was  actually  demanding, 
which  he  had  never  before  employed  in  asking  explana- 
tions of  her  actions.  "Didn't  Ned  tell  you  all  you  wanted 
to  know  the  other  evening?" 

"He  told  me  nothing  about  'Spicer's';  I  supposed  you 
had  simply  been  motoring  with  him." 

"I'm  sorry  he  didn't  chart  out  the  course  the  car  took, 
if  that  is  what  you  wish.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  it." 

"Then  you  admit  that  you  were  there  with  him?" 

"Oh,  dear  no!   I  haven't  admitted  anything." 

"Do  you  deny  that  you  and  he  dined  there,  in  a  private 
room,  and  were  together  alone  until  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning?" 

"Absolutely.    What  an  absurd  idea!"  she  laughed. 

"But  I  tell  you  that  you  did,"  Spencer  insisted.  "I 
can  produce  witnesses,  and  I  intend  to  push  this  thing  to 
the  limit." 

"What  do  you  call  'the  limit,'  Vallie?" 
[236] 


THE    MOTH 


"The  divorce  court." 

Lucy  clapped  her  hands.  "Will  you  really  let  me  get 
a  divorce?"  she  cried.  "Will  you  fix  things  so  that  I  need 
never  see  your  wretched  little  self  again?" 

Spencer  was  not  looking  for  this  response.  "So  that 
is  what  you  want,  is  it?" 

"Nothing  so  much.    Will  you  do  it?" 

"  What  good  will  that  do,  —  you  can't  marry 
Cunningham." 

"Of  course  I  can't;  but  at  least  I  can  be  rid  of  you." 

"Unless  Cunningham's  wife  divorces  him,"  Spencer 
continued;  "that  would  fix  it  up  for  you." 

"Why  should  Margaret  do  that,  —  even  to  please  me?" 

Spencer  laughed  at  her  apparent  innocence.  "Most 
women  object  to  living  with  a  man  after  he's  been  shown 
up  with  another  woman  in  the  divorce  court." 

"But  Ned  has  nothing  to  do  with  our  affair."  Lucy  was 
still  puzzled. 

"Oh,  hasn't  he?"  Spencer  replied.  "I  intend  to  name 
him  as  corespondent." 

Her  face  sobered  for  an  instant,  and  then  she  laughed 
outright.  "I  didn't  know  you  had  so  much  humor,  Vallie. 
The  idea  of  Ned  Cunningham,  dear,  upright,  puritanical 
Ned,  who  doesn't  know  the  world  contains  any  other 
woman  besides  Margaret,  being  named  as  a  corespond- 
ent! It's  a  joke!" 

"It  may  not  strike  him  the  same  way." 

"Surely  you  don't  mean  it?" 

"If  you  have  any  doubts,  you  have  only  to  wait  and 
see." 

For  the  first  time  Lucy  realized  that  Spencer  was  in 
earnest,  and  that  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  explain  enough 
to  exonerate  Ned.  "But  I  did  not  dine  with  him  that 

[237] 


THE    MOTH 


evening,"  she  repeated  firmly,  "I  did  not  see  him  until 
just  before  I  left,  and  he  simply  brought  me  home  in  his 
car." 

"Tell  that  to  the  marines,"  Spencer  retorted. 

"But  it's  the  truth." 

"You  didn't  dine  there  alone,  did  you?" 

"No;  but  it  was  not  with  Ned." 

She  waited  a  moment  for  him  to  question  her,  but  he 
was  silent. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  who  it  was?"  she  asked,  fright- 
ened by  even  the  thought  that  Cunningham  should  in 
some  way  be  involved. 

Spencer  bent  over  until  his  face  was  near  hers,  and  his 
ferret-eyes  snapped  as  they  looked  into  hers.  "No,"  he 
replied  shortly ;  "  it  is  enough  for  me  that  Cunningham  was 
there;  he's  the  man  I  want  to  get,  and  I'll  give  him  a 
chance  to  explain  in  court.  You'll  get  what  you  want, 
which  is  a  separation  from  me,  and  I'll  get  Cunningham. 
It  will  make  fine  headlines  in  the  papers:  the  great 
publicist,  the  famous  lawyer,  the  upright  citizen,  the 
irreproachable  husband,  caught  alone  with  a  married 
woman  at '  Spicer's '  at  midnight !  Damme,  I  don't  care 
whether  you  dined  together  or  not :  I  can  fove  that  you 
were  there  with  him,  and  I'm  content  to  let  imagination 
and  the  yellow  journals  do  the  rest.  They're  even  talking 
seriously  about  him  for  United  States  Senator.  Bah !  I'll 
show  him  up  as  a  whitened  sepulcher!  I  told  him  that 
the  worm  would  turn,  and  now,  by  Gad,  he  may  behold 
the  'metamorphosis.'" 

Lucy's  cheeks  blanched  as  Spencer  ran  on  and  the 
realization  clearly  came  to  her  that  the  situation  could 
be  construed  exactly  as  he  put  it.  She  had  boasted  that 
her  indiscretions  were  of  such  a  nature  that  they  could 

[2381 


THE    MOTH 


injure  no  one  but  herself;  now  she  saw  how  far-sighted 
Cunningham's  contention  was  that  her  confidence  in  this 
was  unwarranted.  As  she  knew  Vallie  now  he  was  quite 
capable  of  carrying  out  his  threat,  and  the  malignant 
gleam  in  his  eye  showed  that  he  would  take  no  little 
delight  in  the  undertaking. 

"You  are  contemptible  enough  to  admit  that  you 
don't  care  whether  your  charge  is  true  or  not?  That  all 
you  want  is  to  smear  his  good  name  with  some  of  the 
filth  from  your  own  mind?  " 

"Oh,  there's  no  question  in  my  mind  that  he's  the  man 
all  right,"  Spencer  protested. 

"You  lie,  Vallie,  and  you  know  it!  You  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  there's  nothing  in  the  whole  affair  except  your 
own  evil  designs,  whatever  they  may  be.  You  know  that 
Ned  Cunningham  is  as  far  above  any  such  thought  as 
common  decency  is  above  you." 

"Calling  names  and  throwing  mud  won't  help  things 
a  bit,"  he  replied  calmly.  "It  has  been  Ned  this  and 
Ned  that  ever  since  we  came  to  Boston,  and  I'm  sick  to 
death  even  of  his  name.  Now  he  has  gone  too  far  and  so 
have  you.  I  warned  him  the  last  time  I  saw  him.  Now 
I'll  show  you  both  that  I  mean  business." 

Lucy  regarded  him  for  a  moment  with  a  silence  which 
was  eloquent  in  expressing  her  feelings  toward  him. 
"What  is  the  game,  Vallie?"  she  demanded  at  length. 
"I  think  it  will  work  out  quicker  if  you  take  me  into  your 
confidence." 

"Game?"  he  repeated  as  if  reproaching  her  for  so  un- 
worthy a  suggestion.  "There  isn't  any  game.  I'm  simply 
protecting  the  sanctity  of  my  home." 


[239] 


XXVI 


IN  reading  the  sensational  records  of  causes  celebres, 
it  is  natural  to  assume  that  association  with  them  in 
any  capacity  means  constant  dash  and  excitement 
and  a  freedom  from  the  ordinary  uneventful  happenings 
of  life.  This,  perhaps,  is  due  to  the  fact  that  those  who 
transcribe  these  annals  do  not  consider  the  minor  details 
of  sufficient  interest  to  the  general  reader  to  warrant 
their  recording.  Langdon  could  have  borne  testimony 
that  it  represented  the  apotheosis  of  tedium  and  fatigue. 
The  address  which  Cunningham  gave  him  of  the  woman 
In  the  Montgomery  case  eliminated  much  of  his  prelim- 
inary work,  and  the  detectives  to  whom  she  had  been 
assigned  performed  such  portion  of  the  task  as  naturally 
belonged  to  them.  Langdon's  function  was  to  follow 
up  such  clues  as  were  supplied  to  him  by  others;  and 
this  undertaking  he  found  filled  with  disappointments 
and  exasperating  delays.  Cunningham  had  been  quietly 
amused  more  times  than  he  would  allow  Langdon  to 
realize  by  the  exclamations  of  disgust,  despair,  and  dismay 
which  the  younger  man  made  in  discussing  with  him 
during  the  summer  the  progress  he  was  making.  Yet 
never  once  had  there  been  a  wavering  in  his  purpose  to 
secure  every  fact  which  could  be  elicited  by  force  or  chance 
from  those  whose  interests  lay  in  concealment  or  subter- 

[240] 


THE    MOTH 


fuge.  He  forswore  invitations  to  summer  gaieties  which 
interfered  with  his  investigations,  and  became  almost 
unknown  to  his  familiar  haunts;  so  his  self-effacement 
during  these  months  was  as  complete  as  the  disappearance 
of  the  famous  Montgomery  case  from  the  scarelines  of  the 
daily  press. 

Still,  in  spite  of  all  the  disappointments,  Langdon's 
work  had  not  been  without  result.  Montgomery  had 
succeeded  in  keeping  his  identity  to  himself,  even  the  name 
under  which  he  was  indicted  being  obviously  an  assumed 
one;  and  this  was  one  point  which  the  lawyer  hoped  to 
clear  up.  Brewster  had  been  a  local  character,  but  no 
one  who  knew  him  had  ever  met  Montgomery  in  his 
company.  Several  of  these  witnesses  were  given  an  oppor- 
tunity, in  one  way  or  another,  to  identify  the  woman, 
but  she  proved  equally  mysterious.  At  best  it  could  only 
be  conjectured  that  the  two  unknowns  were  acquaintances 
of  brief  standing;  and  Langdon's  theory  became  strength- 
ened that  the  two  had  worked  together  in  accomplishing 
perhaps  the  double  crirre  of  robbery  and  murder.  The 
fact  that  no  money  was  found  on  Montgomery's  person 
proved  nothing  one  way  or  the  other  since  the  presence 
of  a  third  party  was  establis/ed,  as  this  woman,  if  she  be 
the  one,  could  easily  have  taken  the  proceeds  of  their 
crime  with  her  when  she  left  the  carriage. 

Montgomery  was  a  man  of  better  breeding  than  he  had 
been  willing  to  disclose,  and  Langdon  was  convinced  from 
what  he  had  seen  that  his  surly  bearing  was  assumed  and 
intended  to  deceive.  Yet  he  was  not  prepared  to  find  his 
supposed  accomplice  just  the  type  of  woman  as  was  the 
one  whom  Cunningham  had  indicated.  She  was  a  dashing 
brunette,  handsome  in  a  way,  living  with  her  mother  in 
a  well-furnished  apartment  in  the  West  End  of  Boston. 
16  [  241  ] 


THE    MOTH 


She  had  her  own  motor  and  was  a  familiar  figure  at  those 
functions  to  which  admittance  was  gained  without  social 
credentials.  Langdon  could  scarcely  associate  her  with 
the  man  in  Charles  Street  jail,  nor  with  anything  so 
desperate  as  the  crime  of  which  she  stood  suspected. 
Cunningham  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  give  him 
all  the  details  which  had  brought  her  within  the  pale  of 
suspicion;  but  such  of  the  lawyer's  doubts  as  at  first 
existed  disappeared  as  his  investigations  proceeded.  It 
was  a  shock  for  him  to  find  that  the  mild-faced  old 
"mother"  was  evidently  hired  to  give  respectability  to 
the  apartment,  and  that  the  motor  car  and  the  marvelous 
gowns  might  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  their 
possessor  was  evidently  living  along  the  "easiest  way." 
This  last  discovery  weakened  Langdon's  theory  that  she 
was  expending  the  proceeds  of  the  crime,  and  caused  other 
complications  in  his  mind  when  he  discovered  through 
the  detectives  the  identity  of  the  man.  This  latest  in- 
formation, indeed,  was  of  so  personal  a  nature  that,  as  it 
had  no  possible  bearing  upon  the  case,  he  hesitated  to  pass 
it  along  to  Cunningham.  He  considered  it  as  one  of 
those  secrets  which  professional  men  are  bound  in  honor 
to  protect;  yet  he  was  entitled  to  his  own  indignation. 

The  evidence  collected  by  the  detectives  was  fairly 
conclusive  as  to  the  woman's  earlier  association  with 
Montgomery,  but  it  lacked  absolute  corroboration.  To 
strengthen  his  own  convictions,  Langdon  secured  a  snap- 
shot picture  showing  her  stepping  into  her  car.  Armed 
with  this,  he  sought  another  interview  with  Montgomery, 
in  the  course  of  which  he  suddenly  held  the  picture  before 
him. 

"Did  you  ever  know  this  woman?"  he  demanded 
abruptly. 

[242] 


THE    MOTH 


Montgomery's  involuntary  start  and  the  expression 
in  his  eyes  gave  Langdon  his  answer,  but  in  an  instant 
the  man  recovered  his  composure  and  his  lips  denied 
what  had  already  been  acknowledged.  "  No,"  he  answered 
in  a  tone  more  surly  than  ever;  "what  should  I  have  to 
do  with  a  woman  like  that?" 

"That's  curious,"  the  lawyer  continued.  "There's 
some  one  here  at  the  jail  in  whom  she  is  interested,  and 
I  thought  it  might  perhaps  be  you." 

The  man  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  but  Langdon  could 
sec  that  he  was  eager  to  hear  more.  "Why  should  she 
or  any  one  else  care  what  happens  to  me?"  he  said  at 
length. 

"I'm  glad  it's  not  you,"  Langdon  went  on,  "for  much 
as  you  dislike  me,  I'm  really  the  best  friend  you  have. 
The  woman  in  that  picture,  pretty  as  she  is,  is  nothing 
better  than  a  beast,  —  she's  a  vampire." 

Montgomery's  hands  clenched.  "Well,"  he  said,  evi- 
dently holding  himself  in,  "well,  go  on.  How  do  you 
know  so  much  about  her?" 

"She's  mixed  up  with  some  one  here  in  this  jail,  and  they 
will  arrest  her  presently.  I'm  relieved  to  know  that  you 
are  not  the  man.  She  and  this  other  person,  whoever 
he  is,  did  a  job  together,  and  she  evidently  got  away 
with  the  plunder.  Since  then  she's  been  blowing  it  in 
on  herself,  and  has  landed  an  easy  mark  who  has  set  up 
a  grand  establishment  for  her.  He  gave  her  that  car. 
Now  she's  afraid  her  pal,  who  hasn't  come  to  trial  yet, 
may  get  out  and  spoil  her  little  game.  Pretty  tough  on 
him,  isn't  it?" 

Langdon  watched  him  carefully  as  the  story  progressed, 
and  felt  certain  that  the  breaking  point  was  near  at  hand. 
"Yes,"  he  continued,  "vampire  is  the  only  name  to  give 

[243] 


THE    MOTH 


a  woman  like  that.  One  can  have  a  certain  respect  for 
those  who  go  wrong  when  they  remain  loyal  to  their  pals, 
but  this  one  is  evidently  relieved  to  get  rid  of  her  late 
companion  in  crime,  poor  chap.  After  they  get  her  I  must 
find  out  who  he  is,  for  my  sympathy  is  all  with  him. 
She  can  ride  around  in  automobiles  and  wear  fine  clothes 
and  have  champagne  suppers,  leaving  him  to  rot  in  jail 
for  all  she  cares,  by  Gad!  It's  tough,  I  say." 

Langdon  rose  to  leave  the  cell. 

"Let  me  see  that  picture  again,"  Montgomery  de- 
manded, holding  out  his  hand,  but  not  meeting  the  lawyer's 
eyes.  He  took  the  photograph  in  his  hand,  and  bending 
forward  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  cot,  he  gazed  at  it 
for  a  long  time. 

"Handsome  woman,  isn't  she?"  Langdon  ventured  at 
length;  "but  you  never  can  tell  by  the  looks.  Vampire, 
—  that's  what  she  is." 

The  lawyer  was  certain  that  the  man  would  give  way, 
and  waited  expectantly  for  the  outburst  of  abuse  which 
he  felt  sure  would  be  heaped  upon  the  head  of  the  woman. 
Montgomery's  superb  control  of  himself  was  shaken,  the 
twitching  features  and  the  clenched  hands  giving  the 
only  evidence  of  his  mental  struggle.  Suddenly  the  storm 
broke,  but  it  was  of  a  nature  so  different  from  what 
Langdon  had  expected  that  he  started  forward  in  surprise. 
The  man's  head  dropped  upon  his  hands  and  his  body 
swayed  with  convulsive  grief. 

When  at  length  he  raised  his  head  he  saw  the  sur- 
prised look  in  Langdon 's  eyes.  "Let  me  keep  this 
picture,"  he  begged;  "it  reminds  me  of  some  one  I  used 
to  know." 

"Keep  that  picture  of  a  vampire!"  the  lawyer  cried. 

"She  may  be  what  you  call  her,"  the  man  admitted, 
[244] 


"but  the  one  she  reminds  me  of  was  an  angel."  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  ashamed  of  his  emotion.  "The 
woman  she  reminds  rne  of,"  he  repeated,  "wa?  one  any 
man  might  be  proud  to  acknowledge,  and  I'd  be  glad  of 
a  chance  to  go  to  hell  for  her.  Tell  her  that  if  you  ever 
see  her." 

There  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  identification  in  spite  of 
Montgomery's  best  efforts  to  conceal  it,  and  after  a  con- 
sultation with  Cunningham  the  evidence  was  placed  in 
the  hands  of  the  District-Attorney,  who  issued  a  warrant 
for  the  woman's  apprehension.  The  two  lawyers  were 
already  in  his  office  when  she  was  brought  in  for  examina- 
tion, and  Langdon  passed  through  his  first  experience  in 
the  vituperative  power  of  a  woman's  tongue.  He  recalled 
the  name  he  had  given  her  when  talking  with  Montgomery 
and  regretted  that  he  had  not  employed  a  milder  one, 
since  its  use  had  deprived  him  now  of  adequate  descrip- 
tion. Her  vigorous  denial  was  to  be  expected,  her  anger 
could  be  explained  as  the  one  resource  left  to  prevent  the 
facts  from  being  known;  but  no  one  of  those  present  could 
have  foreseen  her  forensic  ability.  When  anger  and  threats 
proved  unavailing,  she  fell  back  upon  her  pride,  and  ex- 
pressed her  entire  indifference  to  the  fate  which  would 
overtake  her  persecutors  as  a  result  of  the  insult  they  had 
offered  her.  She  had  influential  friends  in  the  city  who 
could  vouch  for  her.  She  preferred  not  to  pass  through 
the  humiliation  of  having  them  know  of  the  predicament 
in  which  she  found  herself  as  a  result  of  the  criminal  mis- 
take these  "gentlemen"  had  made,  but  if  there  was  no 
alternative  she  would  summon  them  to  release  her  and 
to  punish  her  offenders. 

Cunningham  did  not  appreciate  as  Langdon  did  that 
the  outcome  of  ah1  this  would  in  all  probability  be  far- 

[245] 


THE    MOTH 


reaching  in  a  personal  way.  The  older  lawyer  was 
studying  the  case  entirely  from  a  professional  standpoint, 
considering  the  information  which  had  come  to  him,  and 
applying  it  from  various  points  of  view  to  the  probable 
relation  which  the  woman  bore  to  the  case  itself.  Possi- 
bly the  facts  would  come  out  before  the  trial,  but  it  was 
necessary  to  assume  that  the  case  must  stand  entirely 
upon  circumstantial  evidence;  so  it  was  all-important  to 
gain  as  many  first  impressions  as  the  opportunity  would 
permit.  It  was  not  a  woman  under  examination,  as  far 
as  Cunningham  was  concerned:  she  was  merely  a  factor 
in  the  case,  and  with  his  experience  he  was  able  to  regard 
her  with  an  impersonality  which  was  denied  to  Langdon. 
The  preliminary  fireworks  soon  spent  themselves,  and  the 
struggle  resolved  itself  into  a  contest  between  a  woman 
whose  wits  had  been  sharpened  by  experience  and  an 
inquisitor  whose  skill  came  from  the  practice  of  years. 
Back  and  forth  the  battle  waged,  anger  thwarted  by 
patience  followed  by  threats  made  harmless  by  indiffer- 
ence, sarcasm  meeting  determination,  tears  falling  upon 
a  heart  of  stone.  Then  at  length,  with  little  progress 
made  on  either  side,  the  contest  ended  and  the  moment 
which  Langdon  had  dreaded  arrived. 

"You  are  free  to  summon  any  friends  you  may  desire 
and  to  retain  counsel,"  the  District-Attorney  repeated. 

The  woman  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  stature,  disdain 
replacing  the  other  emotions  which  her  face  had  shown. 
"I  will  write  a  note  which  I  will  ask  you  to  have  delivered." 

When  the  envelope  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  the 
District-Attorney  she  was  taken  into  the  detention  room. 
After  glancing  at  the  name  he  handed  it  to  Cunningham, 
and  Langdon  watched  the  effect.  The  note  was  addressed 
to  Valentine  Spencer.  Cunningham  glanced  at  the  letter, 

[246] 


THE    MOTH 


gave  it  back  to  the  District-Attorney,  and  left  the  office 
without  comment.  Langdon,  following  close  behind,  laid 
a  hand  upon  his  shoulder  as  they  reached  the  street: 

"It's  going  to  be  a  miserable  affair,"  he  said. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  was  the  response.  "He  might  at 
least  have  spared  her  this." 


[3471 


XXVII 


THE  new-born  driving  force  which  had  been  de- 
veloping in  Spencer  all  summer  reached  its  cul- 
mination in  his  determination  to  carry  his  threat 
into  execution.  The  evolution  had  been  gradual,  but  it 
was  now  complete.  Lucy's  indifference  and  ridicule 
had  broken  the  surface,  so  that  her  refusal  to  come  to 
his  assistance  hi  his  financial  stress  made  the  injury  smart 
the  more;  Cunningham's  patronizing  acquaintanceship 
came  to  a  climax  with  his  insulting  remarks  when  he 
brought  Lucy  home  on  that  night  which  was  now  separated 
in  Spencer's  mind  from  all  others.  When  he  started  in 
to  express  his  individuality  he  had  no  notion  that  affairs 
would  go  so  far.  The  idea  of  a  divorce  had  not  occurred 
to  him  until  his  wife  pressed  him  for  an  explanation  of 
what  his  words  actually  meant,  and  the  reply  slipped  from 
his  angry  lips  before  he  realized  what  he  was  saying.  At 
first  it  seemed  that  he  had  made  a  fatal  mistake,  for  the 
avidity  with  which  she  seized  upon  the  suggestion  of  a 
separation  showed  that  she  was  by  no  means  averse  to 
the  proposition;  but  the  deep  concern  she  manifested 
when  Cunningham's  name  was  brought  into  the  case 
showed  that  at  last  he  had  gained  the  whip-hand,  and 
he  proposed  to  enjoy  the  novel  sensation  to  the  utmost 
while  it  lasted. 

[248] 


THE    MOTH 


The  effect  which  a  divorce  would  have  upon  his  own 
fortunes  did  not  suggest  itself  until  some  hours  after  his 
determination  was  crystallized,  but  by  that  time  he  had 
become  a  hero  to  himself,  and  this  was  only  another 
sacrifice  which  he  must  make  for  the  great  principle  for 
which  he  stood.  Fortunately  no  one  pressed  him  for  a 
definition  of  just  what  that  principle  was;  it  sufficed  that 
it  appeared  great  to  him.  At  all  events,  being  already 
hopelessly  involved,  his  present  step  could  place  him  in 
no  worse  predicament  than  that  in  which  he  now  found 
himself.  All  else  assumed  a  subordinate  position  to  the 
satisfaction  he  felt  in  the  opportunity  he  saw  before  him 
to  wipe  out  the  score  which  had  been  mounting  up,  and 
to  show  his  wife  and  Cunningham  that  he  was  a  real 
force  too  dangerous  to  be  ignored. 

Realizing  the  strength  of  his  position,  he  was  in  no 
haste  actually  to  start  proceedings.  Lucy's  obvious 
contempt  for  him  as  they  met  in  moving  about  the  house 
concerned  him  little  as  against  the  new  sensation  he  en- 
joyed of  holding  the  upper  hand.  He  could  see  that  she 
was  desperately  in  earnest,  and  that  she  was  thinking  out 
the  whole  situation  with  an  intensity  he  had  not  known 
she  possessed.  He  could  afford  to  be  patient  and  await 
the  effect  of  his  newly  asserted  manhood  upon  her.  He 
watched  her  day  by  day,  discovering  in  the  process  that 
the  woman  he  knew  now  was  vastly  changed  from  the  girl 
he  had  formerly  known.  Of  course  this  was  to  be  expected 
from  her  altered  relations  toward  him,  but  he  wondered 
at  the  interest  which  she  now  took  in  the  life  centering 
in  and  around  the  home.  He  noticed  that  she  was  with 
the  children  more  than  he  had  ever  seen  before,  and  it 
nettled  him  to  see  their  intimacy  and  to  contrast  it  with 
their  evident  efforts  to  avoid  him.  Now  Lucy  never 

[249J 


THE    MOTH 


thought  of  taking  her  afternoon  motor  ride  without  them, 
and  supper  under  the  trees  was  a  common  occurrence. 
The  only  smiles  or  bursts  of  laughter  which  came  to  Lucy's 
lips  were  when  she  joined  with  them  in  some  of  their 
childish  games,  in  which  she  had  by  this  time  become 
proficient.  But  all  signs  of  joy  vanished  summarily  if  he 
approached  their  vicinity,  and  some  excuse  was  made  to 
transfer  the  scene  of  their  activity  to  a  spot  where  they 
would  be  safer  from  unwelcome  intrusion. 

In  the  meantime,  the  chemistry  of  Lucy's  spirit  was 
undergoing  still  further  changes,  but  the  crystals  it  de- 
posited were  larger  and  of  more  enduring  quality  than 
before.  Since  the  moment  when  realization  came  to  her 
of  the  awful  possibilities  which  the  present  situation 
contained,  she  had  reviewed  in  her  mind  the  entire  history 
of  her  life  from  the  time  when  she  could  first  recall  any- 
thing; and  the  pitiless  clearness  with  which  one  views 
weaknesses  and  failures  when  once  the  power  is  given 
to  pull  aside  the  kindly  concealing  veil,  struck  her  with 
terrific  force.  Strangely  enough,  there  was  still  none  of 
the  old  depression  in  the  sensation  she  experienced;  on 
the  contrary,  she  felt  herself  to  be  keyed  up  to  intensest 
pitch,  and  filled  with  a  desire  to  make  some  sacrifice  which 
should  atone  for  the  long  years  of  selfishness  and  the 
blind,  self-centered  pride.  Never  in  her  life  had  she 
denied  herself  for  another's  happiness;  never  had  it 
occurred  to  her  that  she  was  responsible  to  any  one  except 
herself  in  her  every-day  expression.  Now,  when  perhaps 
it  was  too  late,  an  understanding  came  of  experiences 
and  conversations  which  had  conveyed  only  superficial 
messages;  now,  when  the  opportunity  was  perhaps  denied, 
•came  a  desire  for  atonement  which  contained  a  strange 
element  of  joy. 

[250] 


THE    MOTH 


And  through  it  all  with  constant  recurrence  came  the 
memory  of  her  red-letter  afternoon  with  the  two  children. 
The  happy  note  in  Larry's  voice  as  he  called  out  to  Susette 
sounded  in  her  ears,  and  the  pressure  of  Babs'  little  lips 
upon  her  hand,  the  first  voluntary  expression  of  affection 
the  child  had  ever  given,  burned  its  way  with  life-giving 
warmth  into  the  very  depths  of  her  heart.  She  could 
atone  to  them;  at  least  it  was  not  too  late  for  that.  The 
thought  of  the  children  reminded  her  of  Cunningham: 
"See  how  quickly  your  life  will  respond  to  that  love  which 
they  will  give  back  to  you,  see  how  the  little  fingers  will 
twine  around  your  heart-strings,  and  see  how  much 
strength  those  tiny  hands  possess  to  help  you  bear  the 
disappointments  which  are  bound  to  come." 

What  a  man  Ned  was  to  foresee  that  this  moment  would 
actually  arrive,  —  what  friends  he  and  Margaret  had  been 
in  trying  to  show  her  the  way  to  make  something  out  of 
her  useless,  unworthy  self!  Now,  through  her  blindness 
and  indifference  to  their  counsels,  she  had  placed  him 
in  jeopardy  of  becoming  hopelessly  compromised.  It 
must  not  be,  Lucy  kept  repeating  to  herself,  —  it  should 
not  be! 

So  at  length  she  sought  an  interview  which  Spencer 
magnanimously  granted.  It  pleased  him  beyond  measure 
to  have  her  come  to  him,  and  his  important  manner  would 
have  attracted  his  wife's  attention  and  comment  except 
for  the  anxiety  in  her  heart.  It  was  not  the  time  to  notice 
personalities  or  moods.  She  felt  the  responsibility  of  a 
man's  reputation  resting  upon  her  head,  and  for  days  she 
had  pondered  the  situation,  striving  to  determine  upon 
the  best  method  of  solution  and  the  one  most  likely  to 
succeed.  Vallie  needed  money,  and  the  thought  came  to 
her  that  if  she  could  not  persuade  perhaps  she  could  buy 

[251] 


THE    MOTH 


him  off.  She  knew  that  in  such  a  case  the  price  would  be 
a  heavy  one,  but  she  was  ready  for  the  sacrifice.  She  was 
tired  of  the  long  struggle  and  the  hopeless  uncertainty. 
What  did  it  matter  if  she  did  give  up  more  than  she  ought? 
The  money  meant  much  less  to  her  than  peace  and  the 
comfort  of  knowing  beyond  a  question  of  doubt  that  her 
foolishness  had  not  reacted  upon  another.  She  had  always 
used  it  to  buy  what  she  wanted;  now  she  wanted  just  one 
thing  in  the  world,  and  she  could  afford  to  be  extravagant. 

"Suppose  we  go  down  on  the  beach,"  Spencer  suggested 
in  acquiescing  to  her  request. 

Wondering  why  he  should  so  express  his  preference,  but 
indifferent  to  details,  Lucy  followed  him  as  he  desired. 
When  they  came  to  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  turned. 

"There's  a  rock  over  here  where  I  may  sit,"  he  said, 
mocking  as  closely  as  he  could  her  words  of  a  few  days 
back.  "  I  presume  I  shall  enjoy  your  conversation  better 
sitting  down." 

Lucy  looked  at  him  curiously,  biting  her  lip  to  hold 
back  the  angry  words  which  his  insolence  provoked. 
What  a  pitiful  object  he  was  in  spite  of  the  self-satisfied 
expression  on  his  face!  What  a  degradation  to  be  obliged 
to  trade  or  to  plead  with  such  a  man  as  he!  In  that 
moment,  while  she  struggled  to  remain  calm,  she  wondered 
that  she  could  now  hold  so  cheap  the  man  whom  she  had 
once  accepted  as  her  husband,  and  through  habit  at  least 
had  learned  to  regard  as  a  part  of  her  life.  She  wondered 
too  that  her  concern  for  the  outcome  of  this  interview  was 
for  Cunningham  and  Margaret  and  the  children  rather 
than  for  herself.  Even  the  personal  agonies  of  the  court- 
room, called  into  being  by  Vallie's  threat,  had  sunk  into 
insignificance  while  her  greater  responsibilities  oppressed 
her.  Would  he  fall  in  with  the  suggestion  she  was  about 

[252] 


THE    MOTH 


to  make,  or  was  his  desire  for  retaliation  so  strong  that  it 
overshadowed  even  his  own  self-interest? 

Spencer  seated  himself  casually,  crossing  his  legs  and 
assuming  an  air  of  complete  indifference.  "I  don't  know 
just  why  I'm  here,"  he  said,  "but  I  presume  you  will 
make  that  point  clear  to  me." 

"I  want  to  ask  you  what  the  real  reason  is  for  your 
determination  to  make  trouble  for  Ned.  I  can  under- 
stand your  desire  to  humiliate  me." 

"As  I  told  you,"  he  replied  grandly,  "my  only  intention 
is  to  protect  the  sanctity  of  my  home." 

"Let's  cut  out  the  fireworks,  Vallie,"  she  urged.  "This 
isn't  a  cheap  melodrama.  What  has  Ned  ever  done  to 
make  you  so  vindictive?" 

"Isn't  this  affair  with  you  enough?" 

"You  know  that  there  was  no  'affair,'  and  that  you  are 
only  making  that  a  pretext.  What  is  the  real  reason?  Or  is 
it  simply  because  I  won't  agree  to  give  you  the  money?" 

"You  don't  suppose  that  any  such  sordid  question  as 
money  enters  into  this?"  he  demanded  theatrically. 

"Yes;  that  is  exactly  what  I  think  as  far  as  your  threat 
to  me  is  concerned,  but  I  can't  understand  why  you  drag 
him  in.  Is  it  to  hurt  me  through  him,  or  is  there  some 
reason  why  you  are  unwilling  to  learn  the  real  facts?" 

"You  want  the  divorce,  don't  you?" 

"Yes;  but  not  at  the  price  you  name.  I  insist  upon  a 
separation,  for  I  hate  myself  every  moment  we  remain 
under  the  same  roof;  but  I  care  little  whether  or  not  there 
is  a  divorce." 

"Why  are  you  so  devilish  anxious  to  protect  Cunning- 
ham?" he  demanded  pointedly. 

"Because  there  are  not  the  slightest  grounds  for  your 
charge,  and  your  threat  is  intended  merely  to  hurt  him." 

[253] 


THE    MOTH 


"You  say  you  took  dinner  there  with  a  man,  but  not 
with  Cunningham?" 

"Yes." 

"In  a  private  room?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  care  how  much  you  compromise  me,  if 
you'll  only  leave  Ned  out  of  it." 

"How  about  compromising  the  other  man?" 

"I  shouldn't  hesitate  a  moment,"  Lucy  replied  un* 
expectedly,  rising  eagerly  to  the  suggestion. 

"You  don't  care  how  much  his  reputation  is  hurt?" 

"I  could  make  it  up  to  him." 

"How?" 

"By  marrying  him." 

"Then  there  is  some  one  you  are  in  love  with?"  Spen- 
cer's eyes  gleamed  maliciously  as  he  continued  his  cross- 
examination. 

"No,  Vallie;  there  isn't  any  one  hi  the  world  I  love; 
but  for  pity's  sake  tell  me  that  you'll  leave  Ned  alone. 
Go  ahead,  if  you  choose,  and  drag  me  into  court.  Drag 
this  man  in  too,  —  I'll  tell  you  who  he  is.  We  were  there 
together,  but  that  is  the  worst  which  even  the  world  can 
say  of  us.  Tell  the  open-mouthed  hangers-on  in  the 
courtroom  what  you  think  your  wife  and  the  mother  of 
your  children  is,  —  no  one  else  will  believe  it.  Do  any- 
thing and  everything  which  you  can  to  hurt  me,  and 
take  such  revenge  as  you  like  for  the  pity  and  contempt 
in  which  I  hold  you;  but  be  sufficiently  honest  with  your- 
self, even  in  the  wretched  work  you've  undertaken,  to 
vent  your  spleen  upon  those  who  are  really  guilty  —  of 
having  passed  an  agreeable  evening  together." 

Spencer  enjoyed  posing  in  a  judicial  role.  The  appeal 
did  not  affect  him  in  the  least,  but  it  interested  him  tre- 
mendously. If  he  could  only  succeed  in  getting  Cunning- 

[254] 


THE    MOTH 


ham  in  a  position  where  he  too  would  cry  for  mercy  he 
might  find  enough  satisfaction  to  warrant  some  sort 
of  a  final  compromise  which  would  show  his  real  mag- 
nanimity! But  until  that  time  came  he  would  remain  as 
hard  as  adamant. 

"This  is  a  pretty  story  for  a  husband  to  listen  to,"  he 
responded  to  Lucy's  impassioned  words.   "A  wife  tries  to  ' 
shield  her  real  lover  by  throwing  the  blame  upon  another 
man,  and  will  make  it  up  to  the  other  man  by  marrying 
him—" 

"  You  shall  not  insult  me  so ! "  she  cried,  her  face  deathly 
pale. 

"I'm  only  repeating  your  own  story,"  he  said  calmly. 
"Because  you  have  handled  the  purse-strings  you  have 
assumed  that  your  husband  is  of  no  consequence,  and  that 
you  can  do  as  you  please.  I  have  been  indulgent  and 
patient  with  you,  but  this  time  you  have  gone  too  far." 

"Will  you  leave  Ned  out  of  it?"  she  demanded. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "You  have  not  deceived  me  by  your 
efforts  to  shield  him.  Your  anxiety  for  him  and  your 
disregard  of  this  other  alleged  man  is  evidence  enough 
that  Cunningham  is  the  one  you  were  with.  Nothing  you 
have  said  has  shaken  my  intentions  to  proceed  as  I 
originally  intended.  Shall  we  consider  our  interview  at 
an  end?" 

"Very  well,"  Lucy  said,  the  pathetic  note  in  her  voice 
becoming  hard  and  bitter;  "then  suppose  we  put  it  on  a 
business  basis:  you  need  money  and  I  have  it.  Any  one 
who  will  do  what  you  have  already  done  will  not  have  his 
sensibilities  shocked  by  receiving  a  commercial  proposi- 
tion. What  is  your  price?  On  what  terms  will  you  agree 
to  leave  Ned's  name  out  of  the  consideration?" 

The  gleam  in  Spencer's  eyes  became  keener.    He  had 
[255] 


THE    MOTH 


expected  that  this  moment  would  come,  and  he  knew  that 
it  would  be  a  moment  of  temptation;  but  to  yield  would 
give  Lucy  too  much  satisfaction,  and  Cunningham  would 
never  know  that  the  worm  had  turned.  Again  he  was  a 
martyr  to  a  principle,  and  he  felt  it  to  be  vastly  to  his 
credit  that  he  placed  his  personal  advantage  behind  him. 
"This  is  not  a  matter  which  money  can  settle,"  he  said 
with  a  well-assumed  air  of  indignation.  "The  fact  that 
you  do  not  realize  it  shows  how  little  you  understand  me. 
and  the  proposition  itself  is  conclusive  evidence  that 
Cunningham  is  the  man  with  whom  I  am  to  deal." 


[256] 


XXVIII 


LUCY  was  not  deceived  by  the  mock-heroic  attitude 
Spencer  assumed  throughout  the  interview,  but 
she  became  finally  convinced  that  he  was  deter- 
mined to  gratify  his  spirit  of  retaliation  at  the  expense  of 
all  else.  Up  to  tliis  time  her  anxiety  had  been  tempered 
by  a  hopefulness  that  his  underlying  motive  was  to 
frighten  her  enough  to  force  her  to  yield  to  the  demand 
which  she  had  previously  refused.  Now  it  was  evident 
that  his  intentions  were  far  more  hostile,  and  the  anxiety 
which  had  oppressed  her  became  aggravated  into  a  terror 
which  overwhelmed. 

The  whole  affair  was  so  involved  that  Lucy  felt  the 
impossibility  of  proceeding  further  without  a  helping  hand 
to  guide  and  a  sympathetic  mind  to  advise,  so  she  natu- 
rally turned  to  Amsden.  Notliing  she  had  ever  done  so 
pleased  the  old  man,  for  it  gave  him  a  reasonable  excuse 
to  forget  his  professional  relations  to  her  and  to  the  estate, 
and  to  extend  that  affectionate  assistance  he  would  rather 
give.  He  felt  her  to  be  the  only  remaining  tie  binding  him 
to  the  past,  which  had  really  been  his  life.  One  by  one 
the  old  friends  had  passed  away,  and  Amsden  had  not 
realized  the  importance  of  forming  new  associations  until 
too  late.  Now  that  the  generation  of  which  he  was  a  part 
had  served  its  turn  and  given  way  to  its  successor,  he 

[257] 


THE    MOTH 


found  himself  left  almost  wholly  to  the  companionship 
of  his  books  and  to  the  enjoyment  alone  of  those  forms 
of  recreation  which  had  once  included  friends  dear  and 
sustaining. 

Of  these,  Lucy's  father  had  been  the  nearest.  They 
had  been  boys  together,  and  Amsden's  early  admiration 
for  the  daring  courage  always  exhibited  by  his  companion 
remained  steadfast  throughout  the  various  stages  which 
culminated  in  the  brilliant  business  success  this  same 
characteristic  compelled  wrhen  applied  to  sterner  pursuits. 
When  Lucy's  mother  died,  Amsden  was  as  much  shocked 
by  the  rude  awakening  from  the  assumption  that  nothing 
could  go  against  his  friend  as  he  was  by  the  grim  fact  of 
death  itself.  He  threw  himself  into  the  void  thus  left  in 
the  life  of  the  bereft  man  as  fully  as  the  distance  be- 
tween the  two  cities  would  permit,  coming  to  consider 
himself,  in  the  process,  as  Lucy's  second  father,  and  fully 
warranted  in  criticizing  his  friend  for  the  surfeit  of  indul- 
gence amidst  which  the  child  grew  up.  His  position  in  this 
instance  was  characteristic  of  all  others:  he  was  second 
father  to  everything.  Triumphs  never  came  to  him,  but  he 
could  enjoy  those  of  others;  he  remained  unmarried,  but 
the  family  of  his  friend  was  as  great  a  responsibility  as  if  it 
had  been  his  own;  he  was  wise  and  resourceful  in  advanc- 
ing the  projects  of  his  clients  and  in  protecting  their  in- 
terests, but  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  apply  these  same 
instincts  to  the  advancement  of  himself. 

In  Lucy,  as  she  grew  up,  he  found  the  prototype  of  his 
old  friend,  but  lacking  the  balance  which  had  made  those 
characteristics  practical.  She  possessed  the  same  high- 
strung  disposition,  the  same  disregard  of  dangers  which 
threatened  to  engulf,  the  same  lovable  personality  which 
invited  indulgence  rather  than  censure;  but  the  tempering 

[258] 


THE    MOTH 


qualities  which  experience  had  taught  the  father  were  yet 
to  be  acquired.  The  affection  which  Amsden  entertained 
for  his  boyhood  companion,  when  it  could  no  longer  be 
given  to  its  object,  centered  itself  upon  the  daughter;  but 
of  this  Lucy  had  not  the  least  suspicion.  Times  without 
number,  during  the  term  of  his  trusteeship,  his  heart 
had  gone  out  to  her  with  a  longing  for  expression,  but  he 
sternly  repressed  himself,  remaining  always  the  retainer 
rather  than  the  friend. 

Amsden 's  disapproval  of  Spencer  dated  back  to  the  time 
when  he  first  heard  that  Lucy  wanted  to  marry  him,  or 
thought  she  wanted  to,  which  amounted  to  the  same 
thing.  It  was  instinctive  rather  than  based  upon  anything 
tangible,  but  it  was  sufficiently  real  to  him  to  warrant  the 
expression  of  his  misgivings  to  his  friend.  Lucy's  father 
chided  him  playfully  for  his  prejudice,  and  swept  the 
objections  one  side,  as  he  always  did  when  his  mind  was 
once  made  up.  Valentine  was  only  half-baked  as  yet,  he 
explained,  but  he  was  young  and  would  outgrow  it.  No 
young  man  ever  measured  up  to  a  parent's  ideal,  but  as 
boys  went  he  thought  Spencer  was  as  promising  as  any  of 
them.  It  is  all  a  lottery :  one  has  to  figure  it  out  as  care- 
fully as  he  can,  and  then  trust  to  luck  that  the  result  will 
justify  the  judgment.  Lucy  apparently  wanted  him,  and 
anything  which  Lucy  wanted  she  should  have. 

The  removal  of  the  Spencers  from  New  York  to  Boston 
came  shortly  after  the  death  of  Lucy's  father,  and  Ams- 
den's  appointment  as  trustee  gave  him  a  real  pleasure 
in  being  able  to  serve  one  he  loved  for  the  sake  of  one  he 
had  loved;  yet  until  now  their  relations  had  been  purely 
perfunctory.  At  last  the  moment  had  come  when  she 
needed  him,  and  he  felt  his  heart  beat  faster  with  a  touch 
of  the  old-time  enthusiasm  when  he  responded  to  her  call. 

[259] 


THE    MOTH 


The  first  interview  was  in  his  office,  and  he  listened  to  the 
story  with  no  comments,  but  with  occasional  words  of 
sympathy  or  encouragement.  He  knew  that  at  worst 
she  had  been  but  foolish  and  ill-advised,  yet  he  saw  even 
more  clearly  than  she  that  circumstances  were  more  than 
unkind  in  arraying  themselves  against  her.  He  did  not 
say  so,  but  his  belief  was  strong  that  Spencer's  threat  was 
made  definitely  to  influence  the  financial  situation,  and 
that  his  refusal  to  accept  his  wife's  proposition  was  merely 
to  strengthen  his  position  in  that  Lucy  would  urge  it  more 
strongly  upon  him.  It  was  not  a  graceful  act  for  any 
man  to  allow  himself  to  be  bought  off,  and  Amsden  credited 
Vallie  with  about  as  much  self-respect  as  this. 

The  old  man  would  not  have  tamely  submitted  to  what 
seemed  to  him  disreputable  means  to  an  equally  contemp- 
tible end  except  for  the  fact  that  Lucy  had  made  quite 
clear  to  him,  by  her  attitude  rather  than  by  her  words, 
that  she  regarded  the  giving  up  of  her  property  not  merely 
as  the  only  method  she  saw  of  protecting  Cunningham's 
reputation,  but  also  as  an  act  of  expiation  for  the  follies 
she  had  committed.  This,  the  old  man  realized,  was  the 
experience  which  her  character  had  lacked  in  measuring 
it  up  against  her  father's.  The  interview  had  drawn  them 
wonderfully  close  together,  she  finding  comfort  and  relief 
in  his  understanding  sympathy;  he  tasting  the  joy  of  a 
parent's  heart  in  being  able  to  give  that  relief. 

"Remember,"  she  repeated  to  him,  "I  am  ready  to 
pay  a  very  great  price  to  protect  the  good  name  of  one 
whose  only  thought  has  been  to  protect  mine.  I  have 
done  wrong  in  placing  myself  in  a  position  which  could  be 
misconstrued,  and  if  I  can  bear  the  penalty  alone  that  is 
all  I  ask.  I  am  ready  to  sacrifice  all  my  property  and  pass 
the  rest  of  my  life  in  poverty  and  want  if  that  is  necessary." 

[260] 


THE    MOTH 


"I  am  sure  that  no  such  sacrifices  will  be  required,"  he 
reassured  her,  gently  pressing  the  hand  which  rested  con- 
fidingly within  his  own;  "but  I  understand." 

"I  deserve  to  be  punished,"  she  continued  contritely; 
"  but  Ned  only  did  what  he  believed  to  be  his  duty,  —  and 
it  was  for  Vallie  that  he  did  it  as  well  as  for  me." 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  there  in  silence,  the  old  man 
content  that  at  least  he  had  calmed  her  present  fears,  Lucy 
still  unable  to  recall  her  mind  in  its  rapid  workings  from 
the  events  which  crowded  so  fast  each  upon  the  other. 
Strangely  enough,  the  word  "duty"  she  had  just  used  in 
speaking  of  Cunningham  came  back  to  her  again  as  it 
had  come  before,  but  it  did  not  seem  so  hideous  to  her  as 
once  it  did.  Now  it  appeared  as  an  expression  of  friend- 
ship, which  had  been  unselfishly  exercised  with  no  thought 
of  the  consequences  wrhich  were  so  soon  to  follow7;  now  it 
seemed  to  call  out  to  her  for  action  equally  unselfish,  and 
she  felt  herself  moving  forward  to  meet  it.  "No  monu- 
ment was  ever  reared  for  what  a  man  received,  but  for 
what  he  gave  of  himself,"  she  remembered  once  hearing 
Cunningham  say.  How  much  more  it  meant  to  her  now 
than  when  she  had  heard  it!  She  must  give  now,  or  life 
would  continue  to  be  the  same  meaningless  existence  as 
before;  and  the  determination  which  was  born  in  the  dread 
and  apprehension  of  that  hour  in  Amsden's  office  gave  her 
courage  to  go  back  into  her  old  surroundings  with  a  con- 
fidence that  he  would  show  her  how  to  prove  herself  equal 
to  her  opportunity. 

At  the  lawyer's  suggestion,  the  second  interview  took 
place  at  Lucy's  home,  and  Spencerwas  also  present.  When 
he  learned  that  the  matter  had  been  placed  in  Amsden's 
hands  Vallie's  first  sensation  was  that  Lucy  had  taken 
advantage  of  him,  but  his  later  conclusions  exonerated  her 

[2611 


THE    MOTH 


from  the  earlier  blame.  At  last  he  was  being  taken  seri- 
ously! He  was  well  acquainted  with  "Poppy"  Amsden's 
wholesome  disapproval  of  him  and  his  ways,  and  he  still 
held  him  largely  responsible  for  the  tightening  of  the  purse- 
strings  just  at  the  time  when  it  affected  him  the  most. 
In  his  present  mood  it  would  be  a  real  pleasure  to  have 
the  old  man  join  with  Lucy  in  her  supplications,  and  when 
he  succeeded  in  adding  Cunningham  to  the  suppliants 
his  satisfaction  would  be  complete. 

By  this  time  Spencer's  plight  did  not  seem  so  desperate 
as  at  first.  As  the  affair  progressed  he  was  convinced 
that  by  the  exercise  of  his  manhood  he  had  succeeded  in 
rescuing  himself  from  oblivion  and  financial  mortification. 
He  had  been  wise  to  refuse  Lucy's  suggestion  when  she 
first  made  it,  but  it  was  not  too  late  to  reconsider  after 
he  had  impressed  upon  them  all  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
man  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  that  his  final  yielding  to 
their  importunities  would  be  an  act  of  supreme  generosity 
rather  than  a  sordid  business  transaction,  as  Lucy  would 
be  glad  to  make  it  out.  It  was  painfully  ridiculous,  of 
course,  to  be  obliged  to  provide  against  misunderstanding, 
but  Amsden  and  Cunningham  were  men  who  would  be 
only  too  ready  to  attribute  sinister  motives  to  anything 
he  did.  The  property  in  question  had  been  shared  by  Lucy 
and  himself  ever  since  their  marriage,  and  while  techni- 
cally it  stood  in  his  wife's  name,  it  was  only  fair  to  consider 
that  a  common  ownership  existed.  Lucy  had  never 
thought  of  it  otherwise  until  this  meddling  lawyer  had 
put  it  into  her  head,  and  now  she  had  the  audacity  to 
propose  to  buy  him  off  with  money  which  really  belonged 
as  much  to  him  as  it  did  to  her!  It  would  be  no  more 
ridiculous,  Spencer  reasoned,  for  "Poppy"  Amsden  to 
brand  him  as  a  thief  for  taking  a  muffin  from  the  break- 

[262] 


THE    MOTH 


fast  table  merely  because  Lucy  happened  to  pay  the 
household  expenses!  He  was  entitled  to  half  the  income, 
and  except  for  the  unwarranted  interference  he  was  cer- 
tain that  he  could  have  got  it.  Now  it  became  necessary 
to  meet  conspiracy  to  defraud  him  of  his  rights  with  clever- 
ness and  sagacity;  but  if  he  finally  decided  to  accept 
pecuniary  satisfaction,  after  having  taught  his  persecutors 
their  richly  merited  lesson,  it  would  only  be  a  diplomatic 
method  of  securing  that  which  really  belonged  to  him, 
after  all.  A  step  in  this  direction  was  to  impress  upon 
Amsden  the  real  strength  of  his  position,  so  his  mature 
judgment  told  him  that  the  interview  Lucy  suggested 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  favorable  to  his  cause. 

When  Spencer  last  talked  with  Amsden,  the  lawyer  had 
made  it  painfully  clear  as  to  his  dependence  upon  his 
wife's  estate  for  anything  beyond  the  allowance  which 
had  been  provided  in  the  will,  and  had  listened  calmly 
and  imperturbably  to  the  rantings  of  the  angry  and  dis- 
appointed man.  Now  the  positions  were  reversed,  and 
Yallie's  attitude  was  cheerful  and  confident,  with  nothing 
to  suggest  that  he  stood  in  a  self-appointed  position  of 
injured  husband.  The  conversation,  guided  by  the  lawyer, 
went  far  more  deeply  into  the  various  phases  of  the  subject 
than  the  earlier  one  had  done,  but  the  result  was  no  more 
satisfactory.  Determined  as  he  was  to  demonstrate  his 
individuality  and  his  independence,  Spencer's  arrogaL.ee 
and  insolence  exceeded  all  bounds.  Amsden  accepted  the 
abuse  which  he  heaped  upon  his  head  with  equanimity, 
but  scored  him  so  roundly  when  his  insults  touched  Lucy 
that  he  found  little  satisfaction.  The  only  telling  point 
he  made  was  when  he  demanded  whether  Lucy  had  not 
dined  or  lunched  alone  with  Cunningham  at  other  times, 
even  though  she  denied  the  present  instance. 

[263] 


THE    MOTH 


"Why,  yes,"  she  admitted  frankly;  "but  there  has 
never  been  the  slightest  thing  during  my  acquaintance 
with  Ned  to  which  any  one  could  take  exception." 

"Are  you  sure?"  Spencer  again  demanded,  on  a  chance 
shot.  Lucy's  mind  suddenly  reverted  to  the  one  unfortu- 
nate experience  she  had  had  with  Cunningham,  and  she 
felt  the  color  rush  to  her  face.  Neither  man  could  fail 
to  observe  her  temporary  confusion,  Vallie  noting  it  with 
triumph,  Amsden  with  surprise. 

"Nothing  of  which  I  am  ashamed,"  she  insisted  firmly. 

To  Lucy,  the  discussion  confirmed  the  certainty  of 
all  that  she  dreaded,  and  the  old  man's  words  of  encour- 
agement lost  their  comforting  power;  to  Amsden  it  was 
evident  that  he  had  to  deal  with  a  man  whose  desire  for 
retaliation  had  destroyed  all  perspective  of  decency. 
Sooner  or  later  the  lawyer  was  confident  that  a  compro- 
mise could  be  effected,  but  he  feared  that  before  that 
moment  arrived  the  damage  would  be  done. 

"Well,  Lucy,"  Amsden  said  at  length,  with  deep  sorrow 
in  his  voice,  "I  know  of  nothing  more  to  say  or  do.  We 
are  not  dealing  with  a  rational  being,  but  with  a  madman 
who  is  so  obsessed  with  his  one  desire  to  injure  that  argu- 
ment or  persuasion  is  equally  futile.  There  is  no  court  in 
the  world  which  would  accept  the  flimsy  evidence  on 
which  he  bases  his  threats,  and  you  would  come  through 
such  an  ordeal  in  a  far  better  light  than  he." 

"I  have  no  interest  at  all  in  its  effect  upon  me,"  she 
replied,  weakly. 

"I  know,  and  he  is  taking  advantage  of  the  same  knowl- 
edge; but  what  he  has  to  gain  I  cannot  comprehend." 

"There  are  many  things  you  have  yet  to  learn  how  to 
comprehend,"  Spencer  remarked,  in  no  way  disturbed  by 
Amsden 's  words. 

[264] 


'*  Yes,"  Amsden  answered  sharply;  "and  there  are  some 
for  which  I  have  no  desire  for  comprehension.  Now, 
one  more  question:  How  much  longer  are  you  planning 
to  remain  in  Lucy's  house?" 

Spencer  looked  up  quickly. 

"I  mean  just  that,"  Amsden  replied  to  his  questioning 
expression.  "It  is  apparently  necessary  for  some  one  to 
remind  you  that  under  the  existing  circumstances  it  is 
not  agreeable  to  her  to  have  you  beneath  the  same  roof. 
You  have  no  claims  now  which  need  to  be  respected.  Will 
formal  action  be  required?" 

The  change  in  the  old  man's  manner  took  Spencer  by 
surprise,  and  for  a  moment  the  flush  in  his  face  was  the 
only  evidence  that  he  appreciated  the  meaning  of  his 
words.  Then  the  suave,  self-satisfied  expression  altered, 
and  was  replaced  by  the  malignant  glitter  in  his  eyes 
which  Lucy  had  come  to  dread  and  abhor. 

"So  I'm  ordered  out  of  my  own  house,  am  I?"  he 
demanded. 

"It  never  has  been  your  house  except  through  your 
•wife's  indulgence,"  Amsden  said  sternly.  "There  is  much 
besides  which  you  have  enjoyed  through  the  same  gener- 
ous source.  Now  all  that  is  ended." 

"Do  you  stand  for  that,  Lucy? "  Vallie  turned  suddenly 
to  his  wife. 

"Oh,  Vallie,  what  an  ending!"  she  cried.  "Is  there 
no  way  that  we  can  keep  this  pitiful  state  of  affairs  to 
ourselves?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  unexpectedly. 

"What  is  it?"  Lucy  exclaimed,  hope  again  coloring 
her  voice;  "for  pity's  sake  tell  me  what  it  is!  There  is 
nothing  I  will  not  sacrifice." 

Spencer  paused  a  moment.  "There  are  three  condi- 
[265] 


THE    MOTH 


tions,"  he  said  deliberately.     "If  you  will  meet  them  I 
will  agree  to  a  quiet  separation." 

"What  are  they?"  she  begged. 

"First,  that  you  make  over  to  me,  unconditionally,  one 
half  of  the  property  which  stands  in  your  name." 

"We'll  do  it,"  Lucy  cried;  "we'll  do  it,  won't  we,  Mr. 
Amsden?" 

"Second,  that  Cunningham  apologizes  to  me  for  what 
he  said  the  night  he  brought  you  home." 

"Oh,  he  wouldn't  do  that!  He  has  nothing  to  apologize 
for."  The  hopefulness  waned  in  her  voice. 

"Hear  him  through,"  Amsden  urged.  "Let  us  get  the 
whole  story  and  see  whether  anything  can  be  done." 

"Third,  that  I  take  one  of  the  children." 

Lucy  drew  her  breath  sharply,  but  the  physical  weak- 
ness which  affected  her  when  she  heard  the  second  condi- 
tion disappeared.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stood  erect 
and  fearless,  facing  Spencer  with  a  determination  so  at 
variance  with  the  broken  woman  she  appeared  but  a 
moment  before  that  it  startled  both  of  the  men. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded.  "You  want 
one  of  the  children!  Why,  you  wouldn't  recognize  them 
if  you  met  them  away  from  the  house." 

"Still,  they're  my  children,"  he  insisted  doggedly, 
"and  I  shall  claim  my  rights." 

"Your  rights!"  she  repeated  scornfully  after  him. 
Then  she  suddenly  turned  to  Amsden.  "Is  there  any 
chance  that  I  shall  lose  my  children  if  the  suit  is  brought?  " 

"Not  the  slightest,"  he  reassured  her. 

"Your  rights!"  she  repeated  again,  facing  Spencer 
with  all  thought  of  conciliation  abandoned.  "What 
rights  can  remain  which  you  have  not  already  forfeited? 
Give  up  Larry  or  Babs  to  you?  I  would  rather  see  them 

[266] 


dead!  Give  up  my  children,  who  are  more  to  me  than 
all  the  world?  Nothing  on  earth  could  ever  make  me  do 
it.  Go  on  with  your  suit,  Vallie.  Do  anything  that  you 
wish.  I  am  through  with  argument  or  persuasion.  I 
am  through  with  this  awful  agonizing.  I  am  through 
with  you!" 

"I  thought  you  wanted  to  save  Cunningham's  reputa- 
tion," Spencer  suggested.  "You  seem  to  have  forgotten 
that." 

"I  have  forgotten  nothing,"  she  replied,  still  at  white 
heat,  yet  strangely  calm.  "  I  was  ready  to  make  any  sacri- 
fice except  that  to  save  him  from  what  might  come  from 
this  miserable  affair,  but  now  we  will  fight  it  out  to  the 
equally  miserable  end.  Ned  himself  wouldn't  ask  me  to 
make  that  sacrifice.  Give  up  Larry  or  Babs  just  when 
they  have  learned  to  love  me  and  I  have  learned  to  know 
them?  You  have  no  idea  what  you  are  asking,  —  no 
woman  would  do  that.  — Larry!  Babs!"  she  cried,  seeing 
them  in  the  garden,  her  face  lighting  with  a  calm  hap- 
piness at  their  quick  response  to  her  call. 

She  stood  very  straight,  with  one  arm  about  the  boy's 
shoulders,  the  other  hand  resting  on  Babs'  golden  head. 
"Look!"  she  said,  facing  Amsden  with  a  new  confidence 
born  of  the  touch  of  the  childish  bodies  against  her  own, 
"look!  Do  you  think  any  man  could  ask  a  mother  to 
value  his  reputation  above  these?" 


[267] 


XXIX 


SPENCER  decided  that  affairs  had  reached  a  point 
where  it  would  be  desirable  to  secure  legal  advice. 
Until  now  it  had  seemed  safe  to  postpone  definite 
action,  as  the  situation  was  entirely  satisfactory  as  it  was, 
but  at  the  present  moment  everything  was  up  in  the  air 
again,  and  he  realized  that  he  had  overplayed  his  hand. 
The  first  and  second  conditions  were  the  vital  ones  after 
all,  and  those  he  probably  could  have  secured.  The 
financial  end  was  safe  at  all  events,  Cunningham  might 
make  the  apology  in  order  to  simplify  matters  for  Lucy, 
and  the  question  of  the  children  could  perhaps  be  yielded. 
Yes,  he  had  overplayed  his  hand,  and  in  taking  this  next 
step  he  must  make  no  second  mistake. 

He  was  unwilling  to  give  Lucy  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
that  he  even  remembered  Amsden's  suggestion  to  leave 
the  house,  but  as  it  was  wise  to  consult  his  attorney  with- 
out delay  he  took  a  leisurely  departure  late  the  following 
morning.  On  arrival  in  town  he  found  that  his  lawyer 
was  away  for  a  few  days,  so,  cursing  his  luck  that  he  had 
not  telephoned  in  advance,  he  debated  as  to  his  next  move. 
Being  in  the  city,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  drop 
in  at  his  office  without  excessive  inconvenience,  particu- 
larly as  its  location  was  but  a  few  blocks  from  where  he 
now  was.  These  had  been  unusually  eventful  days  for 
him,  and  he  felt  fatigued.  If  he  went  to  the  Badminton 

[268] 


THE    MOTH 


Club  he  was  sure  to  meet  men  he  knew,  and  he  was  in 
no  mood  for  conversation;  but  at  the  office  he  could  make 
sure  that  he  was  left  alone. 

Thoroughly  out  of  sorts  with  himself  and  every  one  else, 
Spencer  covered  the  short  distance  between  the  two  build- 
ings and  entered  his  office.  Usually  his  intermittent 
appearances  there  attracted  little  attention,  and  he  was 
surprised  to  have  the  head  clerk  leave  his  desk  and  follow 
him  into  the  private  room. 

"Well?"  he  interrogated,  turning  on  him  sharply, 
"what  is  it?" 

The  clerk  held  out  a  letter.  "This  came  for  you  this 
morning,  and  the  messenger  said  it  was  urgent.  We 
have  been  telephoning  Beverly  Farms  and  Marblchead  to 
find  out  where  to  send  it.  I  w^as  on  the  point  of  despatch- 
ing some  one  down  to  your  house  with  it." 

Spencer  recognized  the  handwriting  as  he  took  the  letter 
without  comment.  Waiting  until  the  door  was  closed, 
he  opened  the  envelope  with  a  scowl  upon  his  face.  She 
should  not  have  done  this.  He  had  explicitly  instructed 
her  never  to  send  him  anything  in  writing,  and  he  was 
annoyed  that  she  had  disregarded  his  wishes.  Then  he 
read  the  few  hastily  written  words,  whistled  softly  to 
himself,  and  flopped  disconsolately  into  a  large  leather 
chair,  completely  exhausted  by  the  day's  complications. 
Here  was  a  situation  which  demanded  careful  considera- 
tion indeed!  On  one  side  his  wife  and  her  lawyer  arrayed 
against  him,  and  all  in  the  shadow  of  the  divorce  court; 
on  the  other  a  demand  from  a  woman  of  whose  antecedents 
he  was  ignorant  that  he  rescue  her  from  the  hands  of  the 
police!  Spencer  actually  squirmed  with  distress  and 
indecision,  and  finally  stretched  himself  out  at  full  length, 
pressing  his  hands  to  his  temples. 

[269] 


THE    MOTH 


"God!"  he  exclaimed  aloud,  "did  a  fellow  ever  find 
himself  in  such  a  mess!"  He  groaned  audibly.  "And 
I  never  did  care  for  women  anyhow,"  he  added  in  a 
discouraged  tone. 

Pity  for  himself  rapidly  gained  strength.  She  demanded 
that  he  come  to  the  District-Attorney's  office  and  force 
them  to  release  her;  but  of  course  he  could  not  do  that. 
She  was  held  as  an  accessory  on  a  charge  of  murder,  the 
letter  said.  In  his  present  state  of  mind  Spencer  had 
little  doubt  that,  being  a  woman,  she  was  guilty  of  any 
charge  they  might  bring  against  her.  He  shuddered  as 
he  thought  of  the  risk  he  had  run:  she  might  even  have 
murdered  him  when  she  found  that  he  could  not  pay  the 
bills  he  had  allowed  her  to  run  up!  Of  course  he  could 
not  be  expected  to  mix  in  with  a  murder  case:  he  would 
cut  a  pretty  figure  standing  as  the  champion  of  this 
woman;  and,  what  was  more  to  the  point,  the  episode 
could  not  have  come  at  a  more  unfortunate  time.  Still 
undecided,  he  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 
What  new  complication  now?  he  thought  as  it  opened 
and  the  clerk  reappeared. 

"A  gentleman  on  the  wire  wishes  to  know  where  he  can 
find  you."  » 

"Who  is  it?" 

"He  didn't  give  his  name." 

"Find  out  who  it  is  —  no,  I'll  take  it.  Have  the  call 
switched  onto  the  private  line.  Well,"  he  said  brusquely, 
picking  up  the  receiver,  "who  is  it?" 

"Is  that  you,  Spencer?"   the  voice  demanded. 

"Yes;  who  are  you?" 

"  Cunningham,"  repeated  the  voice.  "  I  hadn't  expected 
to  find  you  at  the  office,  but  I've  tried  everywhere  else.  I 
must  see  you  immediately  on  a  matter  of  great  importance." 

I270J 


THE    MOTH 


"Cunningham!"  Vallie  repeated  to  himself,  with  his 
hand  over  the  transmitter.  So  Lucy  had  reached  him 
after  all,  and  the  tone  in  his  voice  showed  his  concern! 
Good!  This  completed  the  circle,  and  after  taking  his 
satisfaction  out  on  him  he  would  be  ready  for  the  final 
adjustment.  Spencer  stiffened  up  hi  his  chair,  and  his 
manner  recovered  some  of  its  former  confidence. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  care  especially  to  see  you,"  he 
replied;  "but  if  you'll  come  right  over,  I'll  wait  for  you." 

"Very  well,"  the  voice  replied;  "I'll  be  there  inside 
of  ten  minutes." 

Punctual  to  the  moment,  Cunningham  was  ushered  into 
Spencer's  office.  He  made  no  attempt  to  be  cordial,  and 
from  the  expression  on  his  face  Vallie  saw  that  he  was 
seriously  upset  by  the  matter  on  his  mind.  "I  presume 
you  already  know  why  I  have  called,"  Cunningham  began. 

"I  told  you  the  other  night  that  the  worm  would  turn," 
Spencer  observed,  with  a  certain  gratification  in  his  voice. 

"The  other  night?  The  worm  would  turn?  I  don't 
think  I  understand." 

"You've  come  to  talk  with  me  about  Lucy,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes;  I  want  to  spare  the  child  if  it  is  possible." 
.    "Your  very  commendable  idea  comes  rather  late." 

"Then  she  knows  about  it?" 

"Yes;  and  every  one  else  will  know  about  it  soon." 

Cunningham  groaned.  "You  might  have  spared  her 
that,"  he  said. 

"I  might  have  spared  you  too,  I  presume?"  Spencer 
added  suggestively. 

"You  might  have  spared  all  her  friends;  but  now  that 
it  is  too  late,  we  must  shield  her  as  much  as  we  can.  Have 
you  been  to  the  District- Attorney's  office  yet?" 

[271] 


THE    MOTH 


Spencer  rose  to  his  feet,  enraged.  "So  you're  butting 
in  on  that  again,  are  you?  I  told  you  that  it  was  my 
affair." 

"  I  know  it  is,  but  for  Lucy's  sake  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
dragged  into  it  any  more  than  is  necessary.  Are  you  going 
to  respond  to  that  letter?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  any  letter?"  Spencer  de- 
manded angrily.  "How  —  ' 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  Cunningham  interrupted  im- 
patiently. "I  read  it  at  the  District- Attorney's  office 
before  it  was  sent  to  you.  It's  the  Montgomery  case,  you 
know." 

Spencer's  jaw  fell  and  he  gazed  into  Cunningham's  face 
in  utter  amazement.  "The  Montgomery  case!"  he 
repeated.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me — 

"This  woman  is  suspected  of  being  either  the  principal 
or  else  Montgomery's  accomplice,  —  it  is  certain  that  she 
was  in  the  buggy  when  the  shots  were  fired.  When  she 
was  arrested  she  named  you  as  a  'next  friend,'  and  that 
brings  you  into  the  limelight.  I've  kept  it  from  the 
papers  so  far,  for  I  hoped  Lucy  might  be  spared  this  final 
humiliation;  but  of  course  if  she  knows  it  already  it  is 
too  late,  as  you  say." 

Affairs  were  moving  too  swiftly  for  Vallie  to  keep  pace 
with  them.  At  the  mention  of  the  Montgomery  case 
and  the  news  that  he  had  been  drawn  into  it  he  sank  back 
into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  excitedly  risen.  Cun- 
ningham was  not  surprised  to  see  him  so  visibly  affected: 
the  situation  was  such  as  might  well  test  the  nerve  of  a 
stronger  man;  yet  he  had  no  conception  of  what  was 
actually  passing  through  his  mind.  Here  was  Cunning- 
ham, whose  name  Spencer  had  threatened  to  couple  with 
Lucy's,  in  full  possession  of  all  the  damnable  facts  concern- 

[272] 


THE    MOTH 


ing  his  relations  with  this  woman,  and  it  was  only  because 
of  his  desire  to  shield  Lucy  that  the  evening  papers  had 
not  come  out  with  the  whole  story.  He  could  see  Lucy's 
disgust  reach  its  culminating  point;  he  could  hear 
"Poppy"  Amsden's  scornful  denunciation  and  permission 
to  proceed  and  do  his  worst! 

"Lucy  knows  nothing  about  this,"  he  said  at  length. 

"But  I  thought  you  told  me  — " 

"I  misunderstood  your  question,"  Spencer  replied,  not 
caring  to  go  into  further  explanations. 

"Then  we  must  plan  things  somehow  so  as  to  keep  her 
from  knowing,"  Cunningham  said,  with  relief  in  his  voice. 
"Of  course  you  have  no  information  about  this  woman 
which  bears  on  the  case?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Then  1  think  we  can  keep  you  out  of  it.  You  are  not 
planning  to  make  any  effort  in  her  behalf?" 

"No,"  Spencer  said;  "there  is  no  reason  why  I  should." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  for  it  simplifies  matters.  You  had 
better  make  no  reply  to  her  note.  I  will  arrange  with  the 
District- Attorney's  office  so  that  you  will  not  be  brought 
into  the  case." 

"Thank  you."  Spencer  acknowledged  his  appreciation 
with  an  inward  sense  of  gratitude  toward  Cunningham 
which  fifteen  minutes  before  he  would  not  have  believed 
himself  capable  of  feeling. 

"You  are  under  no  obligations  to  me,"  Cunningham 
hastened  to  tell  him.  "If  you  alone  were  concerned  I  am 
frank  to  say  that  I  might  have  allowed  matters  to  run 
their  course,  but  I  have  seen  Lucy's  brave  struggle  to 
keep  up  her  courage  in  the  face  of  your  indifference  and 
neglect,  and  am  glad  to  contribute  in  any  way  possible  to 
her  peace  of  mind.  You  are  being  saved  from  a  notoriety 
18  [  273  ] 


THE    MOTH 


you  could  never  live  down,  and  if  you  care  to  manifest 
appreciation,  I  beg  of  you  to  express  it  by  giving  her 
the  best  there  is  in  you  instead  of  the  worst." 

Instinctively  Spencer  would  have  liked  to  resent  Cun- 
ningham's uncompromising  words,  but  he  felt  himself 
in  no  position  to  do  so.  Even  with  his  brain  addled  by 
the  unusual  demands  the  day's  complications  had  placed 
upon  it,  the  irony  of  this  latest  situation  was  even  too 
apparent.  The  triumph  he  had  anticipated  tasted  of 
gall  and  wormwood.  This  man  whom  he  had  marked  for 
public  execration  now  alone  saved  him  from  occupying 
the  same  position !  As  he  listened  to  his  words  the  absur- 
dity of  the  charge  he  had  contemplated  struck  him  with 
discouraging  force:  who  could  be  made  to  believe,  by 
any  possible  evidence,  that  eyes  from  which  honor  and 
integrity  shone  with  such  direct  clearness,  that  the  voice 
in  which  such  sincerity  was  the  dominant  note,  could 
belong  to  one  capable  of  departing  from  the  straight  line 
of  upright  living !  These  very  elements  of  strength  which 
he  resented  formed  his  own  protection  now;  but  they 
rankled  in  his  heart  and  he  would  have  sacrificed  much  to 
discover  an  escape  from  the  necessity  of  accepting  immu- 
nity from  the  hand  of  the  man  he  longed  to  attack. 

Cunningham  saw  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  an  op- 
portunity, and  was  not  slow  to  complete  the  work  he  had 
begun.  "I  had  expected  that  our  next  meeting  would  be 
of  a  nature  far  different  from  what  this  has  proved  to  be," 
he  continued  with  deliberation,  "but  perhaps  it  is  better 
as  it  is.  There  are  a  few  things  which  you  ought  to  hear, 
Spencer,  for  your  own  good,  and  I'm  inclined  to  believe 
that  circumstances  have  taken  affairs  into  their  own 
hands  and  made  me  their  agent:  I  meant  every  word  I 
said  to  you  the  other  night,  and  your  contemptible  letter 

[274] 


THE    MOTH 


to  Mrs.  Cunningham  gives  me  the  right  to  speak  even 
more  plainly.  Lucy  is  as  fine  a  woman  as  the  good  Lord 
ever  gave  as  wife  to  an  unappreciative  husband,  but  she 
is  high  strung  and  possessed  of  a  personality  which  ex- 
plodes every  time  it  is  too  long  compressed.  One  of  those 
explosions  came  that  night  I  brought  her  home  to  you. 
There  was  no  damage  done,  —  only  a  brilliant  display  of 
fireworks,  but  there  was  need  for  some  one  to  be  on  hand 
to  put  his  foot  on  the  sparks.  I  don't  blame  her;  the 
responsibility  rests  with  you.  I  know  you  don't  care  for 
my  advice,  and  I  know  you  won't  believe  me  when  I  say 
that  it  is  as  disagreeable  to  me  to  give  it  as  for  you  to  listen, 
but  the  fact  remains :  if  Lucy  means  no  more  to  you  than 
you  seem  to  showr,  for  Heaven's  sake,  man,  take  some 
steps  to  give  her  back  her  freedom  and  let  her  live  her  own 
life.  There  are  men  who  could  give  her  something  to  live 
for,  and  I  have  no  doubt  she  will  find  her  happiness  if 
only  offered  the  chance.  Then  go  ahead  and  hit  the  pace 
you've  set  for  yourself  this  summer,  if  that  is  what  you 
enjoy.  It  is  a  crime  for  two  people  to  make  such  a  mess  of 
things  as  you  and  Lucy  are  doing,  and  this  is  your  chance 
to  show  what  you  have  in  you." 

Spencer's  face  was  livid  with  anger  by  the  time  Cunning- 
ham concluded,  but  a  wholesome  fear  of  what  might 
result  if  the  lawyer's  assurance  of  protection  was  with- 
drawn served  to  hold  back  the  hot  retort  he  would  have 
liked  to  make.  This  was  the  apology  he  had  looked 
forward  to  with  so  much  satisfaction! 

"You've  got  me  in  a  corner,"  he  said  sullenly,  "and  I 
suppose  I  must  take  my  medicine;  but  it  doesn't  strike 
me  as  altogether  manly  to  rub  it  in  when  the  other  chap 
isn't  in  a  position  to  defend  himself.  I've  told  you  that 
I'm  obliged  to  you  for  keeping  this  mess  out  of  the  papers 

1275] 


THE    MOTH 


and  for  fixing  it  so  as  to  keep  me  out  of  it  too.  If  you've 
said  all  you  think  is  necessary,  I  suggest  that  we  consider 
the  interview  closed." 

"It  is  quite  evident  that  I  have  not  said  all  that  is 
necessary,"  Cunningham  replied,  rising,  "but  I  agree  with 
you  that  it  is  desirable  to  conclude  our  conference.  If 
I  need  you,  I  will  send  for  you." 


[2761 


XXX 


CUNNINGHAM  left  town  two  days  after  his  in- 
terview with  Spencer.  The  plans  for  the  prosecu- 
tion were  completed,  and  he  was  quite  ready  for 
a  holiday  after  his  unusually  confining  summer.  More 
than  this,  he  was  eager  for  the  opportunity  to  drive  from 
Margaret's  mind  the  foolish  anxiety  which  Vallie's  letter 
had  given  her,  —  foolish,  yet  to  be  respected  because  it 
had  seemed  real  to  her.  He  made  no  attempt  to  argue, 
though  it  seemed  an  act  of  treachery  to  go  away  without 
seeing  Lucy,  to  make  more  plain  to  her,  if  the  necessity 
remained,  that  his  part  hi  that  unfortunate  evening's 
experience  had  been  prompted  by  friendship  alone.  But 
Margaret's  peace  of  mind  meant  more  to  him  than  any 
possibility  of  misunderstanding  with  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  so  he  postponed  straightening  out  this  perplexity 
until  she  was  able  to  look  at  the  matter  in  a  rational  light. 
Spencer's  letter  had  undoubtedly  been  written  as  the  result 
of  a  moment's  pique,  and  of  course  wras  not  worthy  of  a 
second  thought.  Knowing  the  complications  by  which 
the  man  was  at  present  overwhelmed,  Margaret's  fears 
seemed  almost  grotesque  in  then*  absurdity;  but  of  these 
he  could  not  speak  even  to  her.  He  hoped  that  Spencer 
would  take  some  of  his  advice  to  heart,  but  this  was  a 
desire  rather  than  an  expectation. 

[277] 


THE    MOTH 


September  took  its  place  upon  the  calendar,  bringing 
with  it  varied  emotions  to  different  people.  To  many  of 
those  on  the  North  Shore  it  meant  simply  a  continuation 
of  the  summer  gaieties  at  Lenox  or  Stockbridge  before 
turning  their  thoughts  upon  the  homegoings  and  the 
sterner  interests  of  "the  season"  in  town;  to  Margaret 
it  had  brought  the  eagerly  anticipated  outing  with  her 
husband  which  he  had  promised  her;  to  Langdon  it  sig- 
nified the  approaching  trial  upon  which  his  mind  had  so 
long  been  focused;  to  Lucy  Spencer  it  was  an  extended 
period  of  uncertainty. 

She  had  seen  her  husband  but  twice  since  the  interview 
with  Amsden,  when  he  had  come  to  the  house  to  complete 
arrangements  for  transferring  his  belongings  to  The 
Yacht  Club  at  Marblehead.  There  had  been  no  con- 
versation, and  she  had  no  reason  to  expect  other  than  a 
speedy  serving  of  the  threatened  libel.  Amsden  explained 
that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  await  developments, 
urging  her  in  the  meantime  to  see  Cunningham  and  to 
place  in  his  possession  all  the  facts  in  the  case.  He  saw 
no  way  to  avert  the  catastrophe,  but  being  forewarned 
the  effect  of  the  attack  could  at  least  be  minimized.  At 
present  he  was  away,  and  his  office  reported  that  he  had 
left  no  address,  wishing  to  prevent  any  possible  interrup- 
tion to  his  vacation.  As  the  worst  that  Spencer  could  do 
during  the  interval  was  to  have  the  papers  served,  Amsden 
did  not  consider  the  delay  serious,  but  he  was  as  surprised 
as  Lucy  that  Vallie  so  long  postponed  taking  this  pre- 
liminary step. 

So  the  uncertainty  continued,  wearing  Lucy  out  with 
the  painful  anxiety  of  waiting.  The  September  days  aj; 
the  shore  were  the  rarest  of  the  summer,  but  each  morning 
brought  to  her  a  sense  of  impending  disaster,  each  night 

[278J 


THE    MOTH 


a  feeling  akin  to  regret  that  the  long  period  of  suspense 
was  still  unbroken.  She  shrank  from  the  thought  of  seeing 
any  one,  yet  she  longed  for  some  sympathetic  spirit  with 
whom  she  might  share  her  burden.  The  Cunninghams 
were,  of  course,  away,  Valentine  had  eliminated  himself 
from  her  life  except  as  an  element  of  torture,  Auchester 
had  made  his  existence  known  only  by  a  letter  expressing 
sorrow  for  having  unintentionally  caused  her  pain.  She 
had  not  answered  it  yet,  for  she  was  not  sure  that  his 
self-reproach  was  justified.  As  she  looked  back  upon  that 
evening,  even  with  the  complications  which  had  since 
ensued,  she  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  satisfaction  that 
her  personality  had  called  forth  from  such  a  man  a  declara- 
tion of  devotion.  Of  course  he  should  not  have  made  it, 
but  the  intoxicating  knowledge  that  he  loved  her  made 
her  present  suffering  easier  to  bear.  She  had  never  been 
*ible  to  analyze  her  feeling  toward  him.  Marriage,  in  her 
mind,  possessed  no  attractions,  but  her  whole  being  called 
for  love.  Could  the  two  be  associated?  Did  she  love 
Auchester,  or  was  she  simply  in  love  with  love?  She 
could  not  tell. 

Fully  aware  of  her  isolation,  Lucy  wondered  that  she 
was  not  oppressed  by  loneliness;  yet  no  sense  of  this  had 
entered  into  her  thoughts.  It  is  the  last  weight  which 
makes  the  scales  turn :  she  did  not  realize  that  the  possi- 
bility of  losing  one  of  her  children  had  been  the  means 
at  last  of  bringing  to  the  surface  that  mother-love  which 
Margaret  and  Ned  had  striven  so  hard  to  call  into  being. 
She  was  with  them  constantly  now,  making  their  lives  her 
We,  discovering  in  the  process  much  that  was  new  to  her. 
Susette  marveled  at  the  change,  but  true  woman  that  she 
was,  rejoiced  that  they  could  find  a  response  to  those 
demands  of  growing  childhood  which  none  but  a  mother 

[279] 


THE    MOTH 


can  give.  Child-like,  they  had  forgotten  that  any  other 
condition  had  ever  existed,  content  in  their  present  joy 
of  sympathetic  companionship. 

Then  the  Cunninghams  returned,  and  Lucy  would  have 
gone  to  Ned  at  once,  hard  as  it  was  for  her  to  do  it,  but 
Amsden  urged  further  delay.  Spencer  had  still  to  make 
his  preliminary  move,  and  the  lawyer  knew  the  impor- 
tance of  leaving  Cunningham  free  from  diverting  thoughts 
during  the  period  of  the  trial,  now  close  at  hand.  So  the 
suspense  continued. 

Commonwealth  v.  Montgomery  appeared  no  different  on 
the  Court  Calendar  from  hundreds  of  other  entries  which 
dragged  their  slow  length  along  from  month  to  month  as 
mute  protestants  against  the  law's  delay;  but  in  the  minds 
of  the  people  it  was  the  only  case  the  calendar  contained. 
Even  a  clever  stage  manager  could  not  have  planned  a 
more  dramatic  climax  than  the  woman's  apprehension 
had  supplied,  and  that  portion  of  the  dear  public  which 
thrives  upon  excitement  discussed  the  problem  at  every 
street  corner,  advanced  theories  based  only  upon  the 
unauthentic  reports  contained  in  the  sensational  daily 
press,  judged,  and  passed  sentence.  Fortunately  it  was 
beyond  their  power  to  place  the  victim  in  the  electric 
chair. 

Cunningham's  prominence  in  the  trial  was  accentuated 
by  the  critical  illness  of  the  Attorney-General,  which  left 
him,  with  the  District-Attorney,  in  practical  control.  The 
evidence  hi  the  hands  of  the  prosecution  had  not  warranted 
a  charge  of  murder  against  the  woman,  but  was  of  suffi- 
ciently direct  nature  to  hold  her  as  the  most  important 
witness  in  the  case.  Langdon,  impressed  by  Montgomery's 
behavior  at  the  time  he  showed  him  the  photograph,  and 
since,  was  convinced  that  his  client  was  shielding  her, 

[280] 


THE    MOTH 


and  directed  his  efforts  toward  shifting  the  probabilities 
from  the  man  to  his  companion.  By  this  time  she  had 
dropped  all  theatricals  and  was  desperately  alive  to  the 
seriousness  of  her  position;  yet  nothing  could  weaken  her 
impassioned  denial  of  any  acquaintance  with  or  knowl- 
edge of  Montgomery.  The  attitude  of  the  two  was  note- 
worthy, as  the  man  maintained  his  sullen,  indifferent 
demeanor,  making  Langdon's  efforts  in  his  behalf  even 
more  difficult  than  necessary. 

The  preliminaries  of  the  great  trial  were  passed  through 
with  only  the  ordinary  delays  incidental  to  the  impaneling 
of  the  jury,  the  personnel  of  which  Langdon  watched  with 
jealous  care.  The  District- Attorney  opened  for  the  prose- 
cution and  outlined  what  the  State  undertook  to  prove. 
The  expressman  who  had  heard  the  shots,  the  farm  labor- 
ers who  discovered  the  bodies  in  the  buggy,  and  a  few  other 
less  important  witnesses  gave  what  little  information  they 
possessed,  but  the  evidence  brought  out  by  their  examina- 
tion and  cross-examination  in  no  way  incriminated  Mont- 
gomery beyond  the  incontestable  fact  that  he  and  Brewster 
were  together  at  the  time  of  the  latter 's  death.  The 
mystery  still  remained  unsolved,  and  Langdon  felt  elated 
that  the  Government's  case  appeared  so  weak.  Then,  to 
his  intense  surprise  and  gratification,  the  woman  was 
asked  to  take  the  stand.  This  step,  on  the  part  of  the 
prosecution,  was  exactly  what  the  defense  desired,  but 
Langdon  could  not  believe  that  Cunningham  would  dare 
give  him  the  opportunity  for  which  he  was  amply  pre- 
pared. Was  it  an  expression  of  Ned's  altruistic  policy  in 
order  to  give  the  prisoner  the  benefit  of  any  possible  mis- 
take? Was  it  evidence  that  he  was  already  convinced 
that  Montgomery  was  innocent?  Was  it  a  yielding  to  the 
unwise  urging  of  the  District- Attorney?  He  could  not 

[281] 


THE    MOTH 


settle  it  in  his  own  mind,  and  he  knew  that  Cunningham 
would  never  disclose  the  facts;  but  it  was  enough  that  the 
opportunity  was  there  to  be  embraced.  Montgomery's 
indifference  had  from  the  beginning  baffled  him  to  the 
point  of  despair,  but  with  this  woman  on  the  witness- 
stand  Langdon  could  prove  the  presence  of  a  third  party 
in  the  buggy,  which  must  at  least  raise  a  reasonable 
doubt  as  to  the  prisoner's  guilt,  despite  the  man's  dogged 
refusal  to  assist  his  case. 

Langdon  listened  attentively  to  the  futile  efforts  of  the 
prosecution  to  tear  from  the  unwilling  witness  an  ad- 
mission that  she  was  in  the  buggy,  or  that  she  had  ever 
known  or  even  seen  the  prisoner.  If  they  had  counted  on 
any  direct  evidence  from  this  source,  they  had  gained 
nothing  but  disappointment.  Then  she  was  turned  over 
to  the  defense,  and  Langdon  began  his  cross-examination. 
He  recognized  in  her  obstinacy  a  subordinate  form  of 
egoism  which,  if  contradicted,  would  simply  be  made  more 
firm.  From  the  first,  therefore,  he  appeared  to  accept  her 
statement  that  she  was  unacquainted  with  the  prisoner, 
that  she  was  not  in  the  buggy,  and  that  the  assumption 
of  her  connection  with  the  case  at  all  was  based  upon  error. 
Encouraged  by  support  instead  of  the  opposition  she  had 
expected,  the  woman  became  less  suspicious  and  talked 
freely:  she  not  only  answered  the  questions  which  were 
put  to  her,  but  volunteered  much  information  concerning 
herself  which,  if  substantiated,  wrould  at  once  eliminate 
her  from  the  problem. 

After  she  stepped  lightly  and  confidently  from  the 
stand,  Langdon's  assisting  counsel  presented  the  case  for 
the  defense,  deprecating  the  necessity  in  view  of  the 
weakness  of  the  evidence  submitted  by  the  State.  It  was 
not  incumbent  upon  them  to  prove  the  prisoner  innocent, 

[282] 


THE    MOTH 


as  the  Government  had  failed  so  utterly  to  establish  even 
the  presumption  of  guilt.  They  proposed  to  place  the 
prisoner  himself  upon  the  stand,  after  which  witnesses 
would  be  called  to  prove  the  actual  presence  of  a  third 
party. 

Little  came  from  the  examination  or  cross-examination 
of  Montgomery.  All  in  all,  the  effect  of  his  replies  was 
favorable  to  the  defense.  Then  witnesses  were  introduced 
whose  testimony  tore  the  woman's  statements  into 
shreds.  Langdon  was  pitiless  in  showing  her  mendacity, 
for  he  believed  her  guilty,  and  when  the  culmination  came 
in  evidence  which  showed  that  she  had  lived  with  Mont- 
gomery as  his  wife,  and  actually  placed  her  in  the  buggy 
at  the  time  the  shots  were  fired,  no  one  of  the  spectators 
of  the  human  tragedy  doubted  that  the  case  against 
Montgomery  would  be  dropped  and  the  woman  substi- 
tuted as  the  criminal. 

Langdon  prepared  himself  for  the  final  argument  when 
Cunningham  surprised  him  by  asking  that  he  permit 
Montgomery  to  be  recalled  to  the  stand.  Conscious  of 
the  advantage  he  had  gained,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  give 
assent. 

"  I  wish  to  question  the  defendant  upon  one  or  two  points 
which  I  omitted  during  the  cross-examination,"  Cunning- 
ham said,  as  Montgomery  took  his  place.  "Was  your 
reconciliation  with  Brewster  sincere?" 

"It  was."  The  prisoner's  hand,  resting  on  the  rail  in 
front  of  him,  closed  tightly. 

"What  w^ere  Brewster's  relations  to  the  woman  in  the 
buggy?" 

"I  have  never  seen  this  woman  before,"  he  insisted 
doggedly. 

"Yet  you  testified  that  there  was  a  woman." 
[283] 


THE    MOTH 


"Yes." 

"But  it  was  not  this  woman?" 

"No." 

"What  were  Brewster's  relations  to  this  woman?" 

"The  same  as  mine."  Again  the  fingers,  which  had 
relaxed,  tightened. 

"And  what  were  yours?" 

"Friendly." 

"But.  you  had  quarreled  with  Brewster?" 

"Yes." 

"Over  the  woman?" 

"Yes." 

"Yet  your  reconciliation  was  genuine?" 

"Yes." 

"That  will  do,"  Cunningham  concluded. 

Still  further  surprised  that  the  prosecution  should  have 
thought  it  desirable  to  ask  Montgomery  questions  which 
covered  points  already  substantiated,  Langdon  rose  for 
his  argument.  He  called  attention  to  the  weakness  of  the 
State  in  the  absence  of  direct  evidence,  and  emphasized 
the  alternative  possibilities.  A  man  had  been  killed,  but 
what  had  been  brought  forth  to  show  that  the  fatality 
was  other  than  accidental?  His  client  has  been  charged 
with  the  crime,  but  what  had  been  shown  to  prove  that  he 
fired  the  fatal  shot?  Was  not  the  fact  that  the  prisoner 
himself  was  wounded  a  better  argument  in  his  defense  than 
the  State  had  yet  advanced  against  him,  as  evidence  that 
both  shots  had  been  fired  by  a  third  party?  Langdon 
explained  the  difficulties  he  had  experienced  in  securring 
his  client's  cooperation.  This  he  attributed  fco  a  desire 
on  Montgomery's  part  to  shield  the  real  criminal,  and  he 
gave  it  as  his  reason  for  proving  the  presence  of  the 
woman  in  the  buggy  in  spite  of  the  prisoner's  flat  denial 

[284] 


THE    MOTH 


under  oath.  He  disclaimed  the  intention  of  throwing 
suspicion  upon  any  one  in  particular,  but  as  it  had  been 
shown  by  the  defense  that  a  third  party  was  actually 
present  at  the  time  of  the  murder,  was  it  not  at  least 
possible  that  some  one,  not  yet  accused,  might  be  the 
real  assassin? 

When  Cunningham  rose  to  make  his  argument  for  the 
State  many  supposed  that  he  would  concede  the  position 
taken  by  the  defense,  and  Langdon,  knowing  his  con- 
victions better  than  any  one  else,  was  bitterly  disappointed 
to  discover  that  he  intended  still  to  contest.  Then  his 
eye  passed  from  Cunningham  to  the  jury  box  and  from 
there  to  the  spectators,  and  the  universal  surprise  which 
was  manifested  gave  him  confidence. 

Cunningham's  argument  was  a  long  one.  "What  the 
defense  has  so  ably  shown,"  he  said  at  one  point,  "is 
entitled  to  the  utmost  consideration  and  should  count  its 
full  weight  in  favor  of  the  accused,  but  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  prosecution,  it  appears  that  the  search  has 
been  directed  more  toward  the  personality  of  the  criminal 
than  the  study  of  the  causal  conditions  of  the  crime. 
Causal  law  does  not  claim  that  all  which  occurs  has  a 
single  ground,  but  brings  the  searchlight  of  investigation 
upon  the  efficient  or  satisfying  cause,  not  only  for  the  deed 
itself,  but  for  each  individual  detail.  Upon  the  final 
success  or  failure  in  correlating  these  causes  when  found 
depends  the  existence  or  the  non-existence  of  a  case.  It 
is  not  within  the  province  of  the  prosecution  to  say  that 
the  prisoner  committed  the  crime  of  which  he  stands 
accused ;  the  responsibility  for  that  decision  rests  with  the 
gentlemen  of  the  jury.  The  State  is  eager  for  no  man's 
blood,  but  she  is  jealous  of  the  sanctity  of  life  within  her 
jurisdiction.  In  arriving  at  their  decision  the  gentlemen 

1285] 


THE    MOTH 


of  the  jury  must  piece  together,  as  the  prosecution  has 
done,  the  facts  as  they  exist  and  the  probabilities  as  they 
appear,  and  unless  the  result  is  moral  certainty  of  guilt, 
the  prisoner  is  entitled  to  acquittal. 

"To  the  prosecution  the  case  resolves  itself  into  another 
eternal  triangle:  two  men  and  a  woman,  jealousy,  un- 
controlled anger  or  deliberate  forethought,  culminating 
in  accident.  The  defense  has  shown  that  two  years  ago 
this  woman  was  living  with  the  prisoner  as  his  wife;  it 
has  shown  that  Brewster  became  infatuated  with  her  and 
was  the  occasion  of  trouble  between  them;  it  has  shown 
that  an  apparent  reconciliation  was  made  between  the 
two  men,  and  that  on  the  fatal  night  the  three  parties 
concerned  were  on  their  way  together  to  the  city.  Why 
did  Montgomery  place  the  revolver  in  his  pocket  if  the 
reconciliation  was  genuine?  What  occurred  to  transfer 
it  from  his  pocket  into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  occupants 
of  the  buggy?  There  was  no  quarrel,  there  were  no  loud 
words,  as  proved  by  the  testimony  we  have  heard.  Into 
whose  hands  did  the  revolver  pass?  If  it  could  be  shown 
that  the  wounds  found  on  the  two  men  could  possibly 
have  been  inflicted  by  any  third  party,  in  the  buggy  or 
out  of  it,  the  prosecution  would  feel  that  the  defense  was 
complete;  but  in  the  absence  of  such  evidence  the  case 
can  only  be  reconstructed  as  a  premeditated  murder. 
The  prosecution  is  bound  to  assume  that  Montgomery 
with  deadly  intent  placed  the  weapon  against  Brewster's 
side  and  fired  the  shot  which  killed  him,  and  that  the 
second  shot  resulted  from  a  struggle  between  the  prisoner 
and  this  woman  here,  frightened  and  perhaps  frenzied, 
during  which  an  accidental  discharge  sent  the  bullet  into 
the  body  of  the  second  man.  This  solution  of  what  has 
seemed  to  be  a  mystery  is,  I  admit  freely,  hypothetical, 

[286] 


THE    MOTH 


and  should  be  considered  only  in  case  the  prisoner  himself 
has  conveyed  to  you  a  definite  impression  of  guilt. 

"In  the  consideration  of  this  point  you  are  entitled  to 
know  the  processes  by  which  the  prosecution  has  arrived 
at  its  conclusion.  The  defense  has  questioned  the  rele- 
vancy of  the  testimony  introduced  regarding  the  'timbre' 
of  speech.  You  have  listened  patiently  to  the  statements 
of  two  reputable  physicians  as  to  the  effect  which  a  cer- 
tain physiological  phenomenon  produces  upon  persons  who 
deny  what  they  know  to  be  the  truth.  They  have  told 
you  that  the  stimulation  of  the  nerves  influences  the 
snapping  movement  of  the  mouth,  which  alternates  with 
the  reflex  tendency  to  swallow,  that  it  causes  lapses  in 
blood  pressure  and  palpitation  of  the  heart  by  means  of 
disturbances  of  the  heart  action.  The  meaning  of  their 
statements  is  that  all  this  taken  together  causes  the  lightly 
vibrating,  cold,  and  toneless  voice  which  you  must  have 
noticed  when  the  prisoner  was  placed  upon  the  stand  to 
deny  his  guilt.  It  is  so  significant  that  the  expert  is  rarely 
deceived. 

"Let  not  the  fact  that  this  woman  has  falsely  sworn 
to  have  been  elsewhere  on  the  night  of  the  crime  bear  too 
much  weight  against  her.  In  the  history  of  criminology 
you  will  find  countless  cases  where  the  denial  of  circum- 
stances which  have  no  essential  relation  to  the  deed  have 
left  behind  the  real  problem  of  evidence.  In  countless 
cases  you  will  find  guilt  falsely  established  because  these 
denied  non-essential  circumstances  have  been  proved  to 
be  facts.  There  is  no  question  in  the  mind  of  the  prose- 
cution that  this  woman  was  in  the  buggy  at  the  time  of 
the  murder,  but  her  presence  there  does  not  make  her 
the  criminal.  If  she  had  at  once  admitted  it  and  given 
what  I  believe  to  be  the  real  facts,  she  would  not  now 

[287J 


THE    MOTH 


rest  under  the  suspicion  which  the  defense  has  cast 
about  her. 

"The  vital  evidence  in  this  case  has  been  given  by  the 
defendant  himself.  Lest  the  full  effect  of  it  be  lost  upon 
some  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  the  prosecution  asked 
that  he  be  recalled  to  the  stand.  If  lie  was  telling  the 
truth,  why  did  he  clench  his  fist  whenever  Brewster's 
name  was  mentioned?" 

Cunningham  paused  deliberately  as  he  put  the  ques- 
tion, allowing  its  full  significance  to  sink  into  the  minds 
of  his  hearers.  Then  he  continued:  "He  did  not  tell 
the  truth  with  his  lips,  gentlemen,  but  rather  with  his  ges- 
ture, which  is  the  physical  correlate.  The  very  thought 
of  the  man  Brewster  caused  an  inner  resentment  that 
dominated  his  body  even  though  he  was  able  to  control 
his  speech.  Those  of  you  who  have  watched  him 
throughout  the  trial  must  have  observed  that  the  same 
phenomenon  occurred  every  time  Brewster's  name  was 
mentioned. 

"It  may  be  claimed  that  the  application  of  psychology 
to  criminology  is  unusual,  but  that  is  only  because  its 
importance  has  been  slow  in  being  recognized.  In  dealing 
with  crime  the  Government  is  under  obligations  to  employ 
every  known  expedient  to  discover  the  truth  and  to  ad- 
minister justice.  Whether  or  not  the  gentlemen  of  the 
jury  believe  in  the  nature  of  the  evidence  submitted  rests 
in  their  hands.  The  defendant  is  entitled  to  the  benefit 
of  any  reasonable  doubt,  and  the  prosecution  feels  that 
it  has  done  its  whole  duty  in  placing  before  you  its  con- 
victions as  well  as  its  doubts,  with  no  desire  to  sway  your 
judgment  from  the  straight  path  which  justice  demands." 

The  silence  which  followed  the  close  of  Cunningham's 
argument  was  evidence  enough  of  the  deep  impression 

[288] 


THE    MOTH 


which  his  words  had  created.  The  judge  made  a  brief 
charge  to  the  jury,  and  the  only  sound  which  followed  was 
the  shuffling  of  their  feet  as  they  retired  for  deliberation. 
For  hour  after  hour  and  far  into  the  night  the  spectators 
remained  in  their  seats,  relieving  the  tension  by  quietly 
discussing  in  little  groups  the  probable  outcome,  which  no 
one  could  clearly  foresee. 

At  last  it  was  announced  that  the  jury  had  arrived  at  a 
decision,  and  the  excitement  again  became  tense.  The 
jurymen  silently  filed  in,  seated  themselves,  and  awaited 
the  question  from  the  clerk. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  will  you  make  answer  as  your 
names  are  called?" 

The  crier  counted  as  they  answered.  The  clerk  called 
the  prisoner,  and  when  all  were  in  their  accustomed  places, 
he  again  addressed  the  jury. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed  on  your 
verdict?" 

The  foreman  answered  in  the  affirmative.  Then  the 
clerk  turned  to  the  prisoner.  "James  Montgomery,  hold 
up  your  right  hand.  Mr.  Foreman,  look  upon  the  prisoner. 
Prisoner,  look  upon  the  foreman.  What  say  you,  Mr. 
Foreman;  is  James  Montgomery,  prisoner  at  the  bar, 
guilty  or  not  guilty?" 

With  the  silence  in  the  courtroom  so  tense  that  not  a 
syllable  was  lost,  the  foreman  made  answer:  "Guilty  of 
murder  in  the  first  degree." 

The  Court  silenced  the  murmur  which  involuntarily 
rose  as  the  tension  was  relaxed. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  droned  the  clerk,  so  me- 
chanically that  many  of  the  spectators  instinctively 
rebelled,  "harken  to  your  verdict  as  the  Court  has 
recorded  it.  You  upon  your  oaths  do  say  that  James 
19  [ 289  ] 


THE    MOTH 


Montgomery  is  guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  degree.  So 
say  you,  Mr.  Foreman,  and  so  you  all  say,  gentlemen." 

After  a  few  moments  devoted  to  details  the  clerk,  or- 
dered by  the  Court,  again  spoke.  "James  Montgomery, 
have  you  anything  to  say  why  sentence  of  death  should 
not  be  passed  upon  you?" 

The  prisoner  maintained  a  dogged  silence,  yet,  for  a 
condemned  man,  there  was  an  evidence  of  relief  and 
satisfaction  which  could  but  impress  his  counsel,  who 
particularly  noticed  it.  Langdon  entered  formal  excep- 
tions. Montgomery  and  the  witnesses  were  removed, 
the  jury  dismissed,  and  court  adjourned.  Cunningham 
found  his  departure  impeded  by  scores  of  men  who 
crowded  about  him  to  offer  their  congratulations;  for  in 
the  moment,  whether  he  desired  it  or  not,  his  preeminence 
as  a  criminal  lawyer  had  been  established.  He  refused 
to  accept  any  of  the  compliments  which  were  offered 
him.  "This  is  not  a  case  of  personal  triumph  or  dis- 
appointment," he  insisted;  "it  is  simply  an  effort  to 
secure  justice  and  justice  only." 

At  last  he  pushed  his  way  to  the  door,  where  he  came 
face  to  face  with  Langdon.  Instinctively  he  held  out  his 
hand,  and  words  of  praise  were  on  his  lips  for  the  young 
lawyer's  handling  of  his  first  big  case.  But  Langdon 
deliberately  drew  back,  his  face  drawn  and  his  voice 
quavering  with  emotion. 

"It  is  a  crime  to  convict  a  man  on  any  such  evidence," 
he  said  in  a  low  tone  which  Cunningham  alone  heard. 
"But  it  wasn't  the  evidence  which  did  convict  him,  —  it 
was  your  damnable  persuasiveness." 

Cunningham  staggered  for  a  moment  under  the  blow 
which  Langdon's  words  dealt  him,  but  reason  held  back 
the  reply  he  would  otherwise  have  made.  "You're  worn 

[290J 


THE    MOTH 


out,  Tom,  or  you  wouldn't  say  that  to  me,"  he  said 
patiently.  "You  know  me  better  than  to  say  that." 
And  placing  his  arm  about  him  as  if  he  were  a  younger 
brother,  the  two  men  walked  down  the  courthouse  steps 
out  into  the  city  street. 


12911 


XXXI 


DURING  the  weeks  occupied  by  the  Montgomery 
trial,  the  North  Shore  gradually  became  deserted, 
and  Lucy  Spencer  was  among  those  who  moved 
back  to  their  city  homes.     Here  she  found  evidences  that 
Vallie  had  transferred  his  Lares  and  Penates  elsewhere, 
and  she  learned  later  that  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  at 
the  Badminton  Club.    But  still  he  took  no  action! 

The  evolution  of  a  dreaded  event,  delayed  in  its  culmi- 
nation i?  a  curious  phenomenon.  Apprehension  at  first 
overwhelms,  later  giving  way  to  a  demand  for  realiza- 
tion: "since  it  must  come,  let  it  come  now!"  When  this 
demand  remains  unanswered,  the  familiarity  which  comes 
from  living  with  Dread  lessens  its  horror:  "I  thought 
you  terrifying,  but  lo!  you  had  your  opportunity  and 
embraced  it  not!  Have  I  not  magnified  your  power?" 
When  Dread  strikes  not  back  at  this  defiance,  the  Spirit 
rests  upon  the  unsafe  refuge  of  False  Assurance,  for  the 
Spirit  instinctively  seeks  for  Peace.  So  it  was  in  Lucy's 
case.  Amsden  found  it  necessary  to  change  his  attitude, 
and  instead  of  trying  to  ease  her  fears  he  now  with  diffi- 
culty convinced  her  that  the  danger  still  existed,  and  that 
the  moment  Cunningham  was  released  by  the  close  of  the 
trial,  she  must  hasten  to  him.  She  knew  that  he  was  right; 
it  was  only  cowardice  which  caused  her  hesitation. 

[292] 


THE    MOTH 


Then  the  moment  which  she  had  awaited  and  yet 
dreaded  finally  arrived,  as  all  such  moments  must. 
She  found  it  in  the  scare-lines  of  the  morning  paper  as 
she  came  down  to  breakfast,  for  now  her  day  began  with 
the  children's.  Oblivious  to  all  else,  she  devoured  every 
word,  absorbed  by  the  interest  of  Cunningham's  unex- 
pected argument,  surprised  by  the  verdict,  and  appalled 
by  the  personal  significance  of  the  ending  of  the  trial. 
She  was  pleased  by  the  unstinted  praise  given  to  Langdon, 
but  it  was  her  pride  which  rejoiced  over  the  enconiums 
bestowed  on  Ned.  Then,  as  an  aftermath  to  her  pleasure, 
there  came  a  full  realization  that  the  higher  he  rose  in 
man's  esteem,  the  more  shining  and  vulnerable  mark  he 
made  for  the  attack  which  Vallie  planned  against  him. 
How  could  she  bring  herself  to  tell  him  the  whole  story! 

Margaret  was  the  single  refuge  to  which  Lucy's  troubled 
mind  turned.  Surely  a  woman's  heart  would  respond  to 
another  woman's  needs!  Shortly  after  breakfast  she 
telephoned,  and  was  frightened,  as  she  hung  the  receiver 
up,  to  realize  that  the  appointment  was  actually  made 
for  that  evening.  How  could  she  keep  it! 

It  was  with  positive  relief  that  she  found  Margaret 
alone.  When  the  limousine  stopped  in  front  of  the  Cun- 
ninghams' house,  Lucy  dragged  herself  rather  than  walked 
up  the  steps,  and  it  seemed  an  eternity  that  she  was  left 
alone  in  the  reception  room.  She  did  not  realize  that  she 
noticed  anything,  yet  for  weeks  afterward  the  details 
remained  vividly  photographed  upon  the  sensitized  film 
of  her  mental  vision.  She  could  have  drawn  with  absolute 
fidelity  the  intricate  pattern  of  the  silk  prayer  rug  at  her 
feet;  she  knew  the  exact  number  of  tiles  which  went  to 
make  the  hearth  before  the  fireplace,  though  she  had  never 
consciously  counted  them;  she  could  have  described 

[293] 


THE    MOTH 


without  an  error  the  arrangement  of  the  pictures  on 
,'ach  wall.  She  and  that  room  could  never  become 
disassociated! 

"Welcome!"  Margaret  greeted  her  cheerfully.  The 
month's  holiday  with  her  husband  had  dissipated  earlier 
apprehensions.  She  had  grown  accustomed  to  having 
Ned's  judgment  proved  right,  and  Vallie's  letter  and  the 
covert  threat  it  contained  now  seemed  as  absurd  to  her 
as  it  had  from  the  first  to  her  husband.  Then,  too,  the 
trial  was  over  and  the  strain  upon  Ned  was  lightened. 
She  had  read  these  further  recognitions  of  his  abilities 
and,  wife-like,  was  experiencing  her  triumph. 

"Come  into  the  library,"  Margaret  continued.  "Xed 
is  lying  down.  He  is  completely  used  up,  but  he  insisted 
that  I  call  him  when  you  came." 

"Not  yet,"  Lucy  urged  quickly;  "I  want  to  talk  with 
you  first." 

Then  she  told  the  story,  simply  and  yet  with  agonizing 
directness,  to  her  companion.  Margaret's  contented 
bearing  changed  with  the  first  sensing  of  danger  to  her 
husband.  Lucy,  intent  upon  carrying  through  to  its  bitter 
end  her  humiliating  story,  did  not  see  the  frightened  look 
come  into  her  eyes,  nor  the  lines  of  pain  which  settled 
about  her  mouth.  So  the  specter  which  had  haunted  her 
was  not  dead  after  all,  but  still  stalked  abroad  awaiting 
its  opportunity  to  strike  him  whom  she  loved  best  where 
it  would  hurt  him  most!  Curiously,  Lucy  had  not  fully 
comprehended  the  effect  of  her  story  upon  Margaret. 
She  was  conscious  of  her  own  pain  and  appreciated 
Cunningham's  concern  for  himself;  but  when  she  looked 
up  at  the  close  of  her  recital  and  saw  the  change  wrought 
in  those  brief  moments  in  her  companion's  face,  she  knew 
that  it  was  Margaret  who  would  suffer  more  than  Ned. 

[294] 


THE    MOTH 


"Peggy  dear,"  she  cried,  aghast  at  the  result  of  her 
words,  "you  are  ill!" 

"No,  no!  go  on.    I  must  hear  it  all." 

When  it  was  over  there  was  an  awful  silence.  It  was 
pitifully  clear  to  Margaret.  She  understood  exactly  how 
it  had  come  about  and  could  find  no  blame  in  her  heart, 
yet  she  cried  out  in  protest  against  the  injustice.  Here 
were  two  children,  as  they  seemed  to  her,  who  had  played 
with  deadly  explosives,  unmindful  of  their  destructive 
power,  and  she  stood  by  about  to  witness  the  fatal  tragedy, 
powerless  to  prevent!  If  Lucy  had  felt  the  situation 
before,  it  was  aggravated  a  thousand-fold  by  Margaret's 
silent  suffering.  Oh !  if  she  could  go  back  and  live  those 
months  over  again! 

"I  am  only  too  ready  to  sacrifice  myself,"  she  said  at 
length. 

"I  know,"  Margaret  answered;  "but  even  that  sacrifice 
will  not  save  Ned  now." 

"If  Vallie  would  only  take  my  property,  all  of  it." 

"That  would  be  a  simple  solution,  for,  of  course,  money 
couldn't  count  against  Ned's  reputation." 

Then  the  thought  came  to  Lucy  that  there  was  still  one 
sacrifice  which  could  be  made,  which  she  had  believed  to 
be  beyond  consideration.  Margaret  had  not  suggested  it, 
and  yet  — 

"Margaret,"  she  said  slowly,  "do  you  think  —  is  it  my 
duty  to  give  up  one  of  the  children?  I  thought  — 

"Don't  ask  me  that!"  was  the  reply,  almost  fierce  in 
its  intensity;  "you  have  no  right  to  make  me  decide. 
But  —  if  that  would  do  it  —  Ned  means  so  much  more  to 
me  than  your  children  ever  have  to  you — " 

"Margaret!"  Lucy  interrupted,  this  time  speaking  with 
a  quality  in  her  voice  which  caused  her  companion  to 

[295] 


THE    MOTH 


raise  her  head  and  look  at  her  with  surprise.  "  You  must 
take  that  back,  dear.  I  know  what  Ned  means  to  you, 
but  God  alone  knows  what  those  children  have  come 
to  mean  to  me!  This  is  but  another  blessing  for  which 
you  and  Ned  are  responsible,  and  that  adds  still  further 
to  my  terrible  responsibility.  Oh !  Peggy,  —  I  want  to 
bear  all  the  consequences  of  my  folly  alone;  and  I  thought 
I  was  strong  enough  to  make  any  sacrifice,  but  when  it 
comes  to  losing  Larry  or  Babs  —  you  must  help  me,  dear. 
I'm  too  weak  to  do  it  myself." 

"I  can't,  I  can't!"  Margaret  pressed  her  hands  against 
her  temples.  "  I  am  as  weak  as  you  «re.  Ned  is  the  only 
one  who  can  decide,  and  we  know  —  you  and  I  —  what  he 
will  say !  I'll  call  him  now.  He  nnist  at  least  know  what 
threatens,  so  that  he  may  meet  it  squarely." 

Cunningham,  all  unconscious  of  what  had  taken  place, 
came  breezily  into  the  library,  changing  the  atmosphere 
by  his  optimistic  nature.  He  was  genuinely  glad  to  see 
Lucy,  and  in  Margaret's  presence.  She  met  him  almost 
diffidently,  and  it  was  evident  that  she  questioned  his 
possible  attitude  toward  her. 

"Have  you  forgiven  me?"  she  asked,  as  she  took  his 
hand  and  looked  frankly  into  his  face,  eager  to  read  there 
the  answer  to  her  question  before  he  could  give  it  in  words. 
"I  was  hateful  to  him  the  last  time  we  were  together," 
she  continued,  turning  to  Margaret,  satisfied  with  her 
inspection.  "  He  was  just  the  same  dear  old  Ned,  rushing 
headlong  into  my  troubles  to  save  me  from  making  a  fool 
of  myself  again." 

"I  was  the  fool  after  all,"  he  added  generously.  "I 
haven't  seen  you  since  Auchester  called,  but  I've  been 
with  him  several  times  since.  I'll  take  back  all  I  ever 
said  to  you  about  ^him.  He's  a  fine  fellow,  and  you 

[296] 


THE    MOTH 


were  just  as  safe  in  his  hands  that  night  as  you  were  in 
mine." 

It  was  still  hard  to  introduce  the  subject  of  the  dreaded 
conversation.  "Dear  me,"  Lucy  said  as  they  sat  down, 
eager  to  postpone  the  hated  moment,  "  Ned  is  becoming 
so  famous  that  we  no-accounts  won't  dare  speak  to  him! 
Are  you  really  going  to  be  elected  Senator  as  the  papers 
say?" 

Cunningham's  face  became  serious.  "I  haven't  decided 
whether  or  not  to  let  my  name  be  considered,"  he  said. 
"It  would  mean  great  sacrifices,  but  I  have  talked  reform 
so  long  that  it  is  a  bit  difficult  to  side-step  when  the  op- 
portunity is  offered  to  put  my  principles  into  practice." 

"I'm  trying  to  persuade  him  against  it,"  Margaret 
added,  "but  you  know  how  determined  Ned  is  when  he 
thinks  there's  a  principle  involved.  This  Montgomery 
case  has  taken  every  ounce  of  strength  he  had.  I  thought 
he  could  rest  when  it  was  over,  but  now  — " 

"And  so  well  over,"  Lucy  interrupted  quickly,  terrified 
by  the  approach  to  the  danger  point.  "I  was  sure  that 
the  woman  was  really  guilty  until  I  read  your  final  argu- 
ment. Of  course  every  one  was  convinced  to  the  contrary 
after  that." 

"Do  you  suppose — "Cunningham  began,  and  then 
paused. 

"  Suppose  what?  "  Margaret  asked,  wondering  at  the 
tone  in  his  voice. 

Cunningham  laughed  consciously.  "It's  perfectly 
ridiculous,  of  course,  but  do  you  suppose  it  would  be 
possible  for  a  lawyer,  myself  for  example,  to  become  so 
saturated  with  a  subject  and  so  controlled  by  an  idea 
that  he  would  be  blinded  to  a  fair  consideration  of  facts 
which  failed  to  fit  in  with  his  theories?" 

[297J 


THE    MOTH 


Lucy  looked  at  Margaret  hopelessly.  "  Does  he  expect 
us  to  answer  that  offhand?"  she  asked. 

Margaret  smiled  in  spite  of  the  apprehension  which  was 
chilling  her  blood.  Still,  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
by  haste:  the  blow  would  fall  all  too  soon  as  it  was. 
"Yes,"  she  answered  Cunningham;  "I  think  that  would 
be  quite  possible,  —  and  particularly  with  you.  Why  do 
you  ask?" 

"You  do  think  so?"  A  peculiar  expression  crossed  his 
face  as  he  looked  up  quickly.  "  You  do  think  so?  "  Then 
he  turned  it  off  lightly.  "  I  don't  know  why  I  thought  of  it 
at  just  that  moment;  but  Tom  Langdon  said  something 
after  the  trial  which  bothered  me." 

"Please  get  the  trial  out  of  your  mind,"  Margaret 
begged.  "He  has  carried  it  with  him  night  and  day," 
she  told  Lucy.  "I  have  really  feared  he  would  break 
down  under  the  strain." 

"Lucy  didn't  come  here  tonight  to  talk  about  me," 
he  said,  glad  to  turn  the  subject.  "How  has  all  gone  since 
we  saw  you  last?" 

Her  face  sobered  as  she  realized  that  she  now  stood  on 
the  brink.  "Badly,"  she  said;  "and  that's  why  I'm  here. 
I  know  how  tired  you  are,  Ned,  and  that  I  ought  not  to 
burden  you  with  another  care;  but  matters  have  gone 
too  far  for  me  to  handle  by  myself,  and  there  are  some 
things  you  must  know." 

"Of  course  I  must  know  of  anything  that  is  worrying 
you.  Here  are  two  good  friends  of  yours  just  as  eager 
now  as  always  to  be  of  service;  and  I  promise  I  won't 
rush  in  again  without  knowing  more  than  I  did  last  time 
of  the  character  of  the  man." 

"The  man  this  time  is  Vallie,"  Lucy  explained  hesitat- 
ingly, "and  he  is  determined  to  bring  suit  for  divorce." 

[298] 


THE    MOTH 


"So!"  Cunningham  interjected.  "He  is  determined, 
is  he?  How  do  you  feel  about  it?" 

"I  am  sure  that  a  separation  would  be  better  for  both 
of  us;  and  I  don't  care  for  myself  if  he  insists  upon 
dragging  me  into  court,  but — " 

"He  can't  drag  you  into  court,  —  and  if  a  separation 
is  really  the  wise  thing  I  shall  insist  that  you  get  it  from 
him,  instead  of  the  reverse." 

"But  you  don't  understand.  I  haven't  any  grounds 
for  it." 

"Neither  has  he,"  Cunningham  replied  shortly. 

"No;  but  he  thinks  he  has.  That's  just  the  point. 
He  is  making  a  lot  out  of  that  affair  at  'Spicer's'." 

Cunningham  rose  abruptly,  shoved  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room.  At  length  he 
stopped,  standing  in  front  of  Lucy.  "Tell  me  more," 
he  said. 

As  briefly  as  possible  she  gave  him  an  outline  of  the 
situation,  but  she  could  not  even  yet  bring  herself  actually 
to  the  point  of  saying  that  he  was  the  man  her  husband 
intended  to  name.  She  must  tell  him,  of  course,  but  she 
still  postponed  the  evil  moment. 

Cunningham  became  more  and  more  indignant  as  the 
story  was  continued.  "I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  possi- 
ble, even  for  him,"  he  kept  repeating.  "So  unless  he  gets 
half  the  estate  he  threatens  to  bring  suit  and  make  the 
affair  at  'Spicer's'  the  basis?" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  more  than  that  now,"  Lucy  said,  doling 
out  the  facts  piecemeal.  "He  also  insists  that  he  must 
have  one  of  the  children." 

Margaret  had  been  a  silent  spectator,  knowing  that 
Lucy  needed  Ned's  advice  more  than  her  sympathy.  As 
she  sat  there  and  heard  their  conversation  she  came  to 

[299J 


THE    MOTH 


understand  the  relations  which  existed  between  the  two 
far  better  than  she  could  have  learned  in  any  other  way, 
and  for  a  moment  pride  in  her  husband  made  her  forget 
the  pain.  When  Lucy  spoke  of  the  children,  and  Mar- 
garet noted  the  quivering  of  her  lips,  the  woman's  heart 
could  remain  silent  no  longer. 

"Lucy  has  yielded  everything,"  she  said  simply,  un- 
willing to  have  his  judgment  influenced  by  a  knowledge 
of  her  own  emotions,  "except  this  last  demand  for  either 
Larry  or  Babs.  Just  think,  Ned,  the  children  have  come 
to  mean  to  her  what  we  believed  they  might,  and  now 
Vallie  threatens  to  tear  one  of  them  away  from  her." 

Cunningham's  face  lighted  with  a  real  joy  as  he  turned 
to  Lucy.  "At  last!"  he  cried;  "at  last  the  little  mother 
has  come  into  her  own !  I  knew  it  would  come,  I  knew  it ! 
Now  you  realize  what  life  really  is!" 

Her  eyes  refused  to  respond  to  his  happy  mood,  and  she 
turned  despairingly  to  Margaret,  who  quickly  took  up  the 
recital  where  it  had  been  interrupted. 

"It  appears  to  be  a  question  of  saving  the  man's  reputa- 
tion or  keeping  the  child,"  she  went  on,  watching  him 
deliberately;  "and  Lucy  and  I  are  not  strong  enough  to 
settle  it." 

"Then  I  will  settle  it  for  you,"  he  replied  decisively. 
"  The  children  shall  not  be  separated,  nor  shall  they  be 
taken  from  their  mother." 

"What , of  the  man's  reputation?"  Margaret  asked 
weakly. 

Cunningham  crossed  quietly  over  to  where  his  wife 
was  sitting,  and  held  her  face  gently  between  his  hands. 
"Peggy  darling,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  which  manifested  his 
depth  of  feeling,  "there  are  some  things  in  life  which  are 
so  far  above  a  man's  reputation  that  we  never  mention 

[300] 


THE    MOTH 


them  in  the  same  breath,  —  and  mother-love  is  one  of 
these.  There  is  no  man,  whose  reputation  is  worth  the 
thought  of  protecting,  who  would  hesitate  a  moment." 

"Suppose  you  were  that  man,  Ned?"  she  asked 
pointedly. 

"My  only  anxiety  would  be  its  possible  effect  on  you, 
dear.  To  accept  the  temporary  responsibility  of  an  unjust 
accusation  would  be  a  light  penalty  to  pay  for  the  satis- 
faction ot  saving  a  child  to  its  mother.  I  know  the  man 
in  this  present  case,  and  I  know  that  he  would  answer 
your  question  as  I  have;  but  it  will  never  come  to  that." 

"  Oh,"  Lucy  cried  involuntarily,  "but  it  will!" 

"It  shall  never  come  to  that,"  he  said  with  finality. 

"But  you  don't  understand  — " 

"I  understand  better  than  any  one  except  Vallie  him- 
self," he  continued  confidently.  "This  is  a  matter  you 
may  safely  leave  in  my  hands.  Now  the  question  is,  do 
you  really  wish  a  separation?" 

"Yes;  if  the  man's  reputation  need  not  suffer  and  I 
can  keep  my  children,  but  — 

"I  will  guarantee  all  that;  and  we'll  settle  matters  at 
once.  Where  is  Vallie?" 

"At  the  Badminton,  I  suppose." 

Cunningham  picked  up  the  telephone. 

"You're  not  going  to  talk  with  him  now?"  Lucy  asked, 
aghast,  desperately  frightened  that  he  proposed  to  act 
at  once. 

"I'm  going  to  get  him  here  right  away  if  I  can." 

"But  I  must  tell  you  some  other  things." 

"Peggy,"  he  said,  addressing  his  wife,  "I  appoint  you 
deputy  sheriff.  You  are  to  prevent  Lucy  from  saying  or 
doing  anything  to  interfere  with  me.  Everything  is  work- 
ing out  to  a  nicety,  and  I  don't  want  any  interruption." 

[301] 


THE    MOTH 


"It  is  vital  that  you  listen  to  her,"  Margaret 
expostulated. 

Cunningham  was  almost  impatient.  The  audacity  of 
this  man's  threat  in  view  of  existing  conditions  angered 
him  beyond  control.  "You  must  leave  me  alone  with 
this,"  he  said  decisively.  "There  is  more  to  it  than  you 
or  Lucy  realize.  You  must  leave  me  alone." 

The  telephone  call  was  successful.  "I  told  you  that 
I  would  send  for  you  if  you  were  needed,"  Cunningham 
told  Spencer.  "That  moment  has  arrived.  Please  take 
a  taxi  and  come  to  my  house  at  once." 

"Will  you  listen  now?"  Margaret  asked  as  he  turned 
from  the  telephone. 

"I  need  every  moment  to  crystallize  this  matter  in  my 
mind,"  he  replied,  scarcely  heeding  her.  "Please  don't 
break  into  my  chain  of  thought." 

All  sorts  of  dire  possibilities  loomed  up  in  Spencer's 
mind  as  he  covered  the  distance  as  swiftly  as  a  motor 
cab  could  carry  him.  At  Cunningham's  suggestion 
Margaret  and  Lucy  had  taken  chairs  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  library,  and  Vallie  did  not  notice  them  as  he  entered. 

"What's  up?"  he  demanded  excitedly.  "I  thought 
everything  was  settled  yesterday.  Has  she — " 

"As  far  as  you're  concerned,  I  judge  that  things  have 
just  begun,"  was  Cunningham's  response. 

"My  God!  you  don't  tell  me!  I  thought  I  was  through 
with  her  forever!" 

"You  haven't  said  'good  evening'  to  Margaret  and 
Lucy,"  Ned  reminded  him. 

His  eye  quickly  followed  Cunningham's  glance,  and 
.his  face  clouded  angrily.  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 
he  demanded  of  Lucy.  "Isn't  it  enough — " 

"I  only  suggested  that  you  say  'good  evening,'"  Cun- 
[302] 


THE    MOTH 


ningham  interrupted  before  he  could  continue  further. 
"Our  interview  will  be  confined  to  ourselves." 

"What  is  this,  a  trap?"  Spencer  asked  suspiciously. 

"No;  it's  a  clearing-house,"  was  the  calm  reply.  " Lucy 
tells  me  that  you  have  suggested  a  legal  separation,  and 
I  find  that  the  suggestion  is  an  agreeable  one  to  her. 
I've  asked  you  to  come  here  so  that  I  may  assist  you  in 
accomplishing  what  you  both  desire." 

"Has  she  told  you  on  what  grounds  I  propose  to  bring 
suit?" 

"She  has  intimated  what  you  apparently  had  in  mind 
when  you  talked  with  her,  but  of  course  you  were  not 
serious." 

"Has  she  mentioned  the  name  of  the  man?" 

"She  doesn't  need  to.  You  forget  that  I  was  there. 
You  and  I  both  know  that  there's  nothing  in  it." 

"How  would  such  a  suit  affect  his  reputation?  "  Spencer 
asked  significantly. 

"No  man  can  pass  through  such  an  experience,  even 
though  wholly  innocent  as  in  this  case,  without  being 
denied.  After  a  nail  is  driven  into  a  board  you  may  re- 
move the  nail,  but  the  hole  still  remains.  I  am  glad  that 
the  man  in  question  is  to  be  spared  such  a  misfortune." 

"You  are  going  to  prevent  the  bringing  of  this  suit?" 

"No;  you  have  already  decided  to  abandon  it.  All 
I  am  going  to  do  is  to  relieve  Lucy's  anxiety.  I  assume, 
in  spite  of  what  has  happened,  that  I  may  still  consider 
you  a  gentleman,  and  as  such  you  are  going  to  give  me 
your  word  of  honor  that  you  will  desert  your  wife  for 
the  period  required  by  law,  at  the  expiration  of  which 
time  Lucy  will  apply  for  a  divorce  on  those  grounds.  As 
a  gentleman,  you  will  agree  that  her  suit  will  not  be 
contested,  that  the  two  children  are  to  remain  in  her 

[303] 


THE    MOTH 


custody  before  and  after  the  divorce,  and  that  you  will 
accept  such  financial  settlement  as  she  may  decide  volun- 
tarily to  make.  I  believe  that  covers  everything.  Now 
I  want  you  to  tell  Lucy  in  Margaret's  presence  and  mine 
that  you  will  agree  to  this. " 

Spencer's  face  expressed  the  gamut  of  emotions  as  Cun- 
ningham spoke  with  a  voice  so  full  of  confidence  that 
Margaret  and  Lucy  were  amazed.  Expecting  that  each 
moment  would  bring  out  the  real  facts,  and  convinced  that 
the  final  outcome  could  only  be  a  triumph  for  Vallie,  they 
hung  on  each  word  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  Surely 
this  arrogant  disregard  of  Spencer's  malign  advantage 
must  bring  disaster!  Lucy  expected  to  hear  his  angry 
protests,  Margaret  feared  personal  violence.  Instead, 
Vallie  laughed  disagreeably. 

"Will  I  agree  to  it?"  he  repeated  after  Cunningham. 
*'  Certainly  not !  This  is  the  time  you  have  a  boy  on  your 
hands  too  big  to  spank!  —  Look  here,  Cunningham,"  he 
said,  becoming  dramatic  in  his  anger,  "you  told  me  once 
that  there  were  a  few  things  I  ought  to  know,  and  then 
proceeded  to  instruct  me.  Now  I  intend  to  reciprocate. 
You  have  gone  through  your  life  with  an  idea  that  there 
is  only  one  side  to  any  question,  and  that  you  are  on 
that  side.  You  have  made  a  certain  number  of  people 
think  that  you  are  a  great  man,  but  it's  because  they  don't 
know  you  as  I  do.  I  know  you  for  a  damned  prig,  so 
puffed  up  by  the  sense  of  your  own  imp6rtance  that  some 
day  you'll  explode  like  a  toy  balloon.  You  think  now  that 
you've  got  me  cornered.  I  know  what's  in  your  mind; 
but  I'd  as  soon  face  that  as  admit  myself  licked  by  you. 
You  should  have  sprung  this  just  a  bit  earlier,  for  I'll 
admit  I  shouldn't  relish  being  mixed  up  with  that  case. 
But  now  —  go  ahead.  Tell  Lucy  if  you  like,  —  tell 


THE    MOTH 


everybody.  I'll  have  my  papers  served  tomorrow.  She 
may  bring  a  counter-suit  if  she  chooses,  but  in  the  pro- 
cess I'll  get  the  man  I'm  after." 

To  the  two  women  all  was  over,  and  they  only  awaited 
the  final  statement  from  Spencer  that  in  these  papers 
Cunningham  would  be  named.  If  they  had  only  been 
allowed  to  speak  before  Vallie's  arrival!  Margaret 
blamed  herself  that  she  had  not  risked  Ned's  censure  by 
insisting  against  his  express  command.  He  sat  there  pa- 
tiently and  calmly.  What  would  be  his  attitude  if  he 
really  knew! 

"So  you  refuse?  "  he  asked  when  Spencer  paused  at  last. 

"Of  course.      What  kind  of  a  fool  do  you  take  me  for?" 

"Very  well."  Cunningham's  patience  changed  into  a 
determination  which  could  not  be  mistaken.  "The 
Montgomery  case  has  been  appealed,"  he  said.  "The 
witnesses  will  all  be  held  to  await  the  result  of  the  ex- 
ceptions, and  I  propose  to  add  a  new  witness.  Do  you 
follow  me,  Spencer?  —  a  new  witness.  I  shall  have  him 
taken  into  custody  tonight." 

Vallie's  insolence  disappeared.  The  confidence  which 
had  marked  his  attitude  up  to  this  time  vanished,  and  he 
sat  dull  and  sullen  as  if  stunned. 

"Do  you  care  to  reconsider?"  Cunningham  asked  him. 
"Now  will  you  agree  to  it?" 

"You  know  I  will,  damn  you,"  he  said  at  length,  and 
then  relapsed  into  his  apathy. 

"I  was  sure  that  I  could  not  be  mistaken,"  Cunning- 
ham said  with  satisfaction.  "A  gentleman  always  yields 
precedence  to  a  lady  in  a  matter  of  this  kind." 

Vallie  rose  mechanically.  "There's  no  stopping  you 
since  you  sent  that  poor  devil  to  the  electric  chair,  is 
there?"  he  said  brutally. 

20  [305] 


THE    MOTH 


"If  there  is  a  re-trial,  perhaps  the  woman  will  finally 
be  convicted?"  Cunningham  replied  with  significance. 

Spencer  glared  at  him,  but  made  no  response.  Then  he 
left  the  room  abruptly.  They  heard  his  rapid  steps  upon 
the  stairway  and  a  heavy  slam  of  the  door. 

Cunningham  turned  to  Lucy  manifesting  a  tenderness 
and  feeling  which  contrasted  curiously  with  the  attitude 
he  had  assumed  with  Vallie.  "There,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief;  "there  he  goes  out  of  your  life  forever."  He 
paused  for  a  moment  in  deep  thought.  "You  two  have 
made  a  sorry  mess  of  the  years  you've  had  together," 
he  continued,  "and  you  are  both  partly  to  blame.  Now 
the  slate  is  wiped  off,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  make  better  use 
of  the  years  to  come." 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  she  demanded,  still  feeling 
as  if  in  a  dream  from  which  she  must  soon  awaken. 

"Just  a  legal  service  which  I  can  render  him  for  which 
he  could  never  pay  except  by  this,"  Cunningham  replied 
gravely. 

"And  there  will  be  no  suit?"  Margaret  asked,  as  dazed 
as  Lucy  by  the  sudden  reversal  of  emotions. 

"Not  until  Lucy  brings  it." 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck 
with  an  ecstasy  which  he  failed  to  comprehend,  "thank 
God!  thank  God!" 


[306] 


XXXII 


A  UCHESTER  found  the  time  approaching  when  his 
L\  sojourn  in  America  must  come  to  an  end,  and  he 
J-  ^-  viewed  the  prospect  of  his  departure  with  genuine 
regret.  The  confidential  business  mission  which  had 
occasioned  his  coming  to  Boston  had  been  satisfactorily 
concluded,  but  in  his  own  affairs  he  acknowledged  frankly 
to  himself  that  he  had  miserably  failed.  Had  it  been  mere 
failure  to  accomplish  he  might  have  forgiven  himself,  but 
to  have  lost  through  error  in  sizing  up  the  situation  was 
unpardonable.  A  general  who  meets  defeat  through  lack 
of  numbers  or  through  greater  skill  in  the  opposing  force 
may  still  look  forward  to  achievement,  but  he  who  loses 
in  an  engagement  based  upon  a  false  hypothesis  is  entitled 
to  nothing  but  disgrace. 

The  fact  that  Lucy  had  made  no  reply  to  his  letter  was 
evidence  enough  of  his  signal  defeat.  He  could  not  with 
self-respect  do  more  than  he  had  done,  yet  it  was  not  easy, 
during  these  weeks,  for  him  to  sit  idly  by  when  his  spirit 
demanded  action.  Her  last  memory  of  him  must  be  that 
of  a  skulker,  meekly  accepting  Cunningham's  cutting 
sarcasm,  tacitly  admitting  that  he  was  wrong.  He  knew 
that  he  had  squared  himself  with  the  lawyer,  but  to 
Lucy,  who  had  looked  upon  him  as  a  man  of  strength  and 
courage,  he  must  appear  a  paper  soldier,  retreating  at 

[307] 


THE    MOTH 


the  first  smell  of  powder.  What  of  his  claims  that  even 
men's  conventions  possessed  no  terrors  for  him!  She 
could  but  interpret  his  attitude  throughout  the  whole 
affair  as  giving  him  the  lie.  She  could  not  be  expected 
to  understand  that  it  was  alone  consideration  for  her  that 
had  controlled  his  actions;  she  could  never  know  how 
gladly  he  would  have  placed  his  arm  about  her  and 
defied  the  world! 

The  Captain  would  not  have  believed  he  could  be  so 
hard  hit.  In  the  past  he  had  smiled  indulgently  at  fellow- 
officers  who  allowed  affaires  de  cceur  to  place  a  blight  even 
temporarily  upon  their  lives.  He  was  not  a  man  to  boast, 
but  had  he  been  forced  to  answer  such  a  question,  he 
would  have  expressed  absolute  incredulity  that  any 
woman  could  so  make  him  lose  conviction  in  himself.  Now 
he  realized  that  it  'is  through  personal  experience  alone 
that  one  learns  to  know  the  truth.  Now  he  knew  that 
whatever  the  future  years  held  for  him,  his  life  could 
never  be  the  same.  He  had  given  himself  to  her  without 
reserve,  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms,  he  had  felt  her  lips 
against  his  own.  This  experience  would  mean  nothing 
except  that  she  was  the  one  woman;  being  such,  his  life 
could  but  be  the  richer  for  it,  albeit  that  the  bitter 
mingled  with  the  sweet. 

During  these  weeks  Lucy  had  dropped  out  of  everything 
still  more  completely  than  during  the  period  of  her  self- 
immolation.  This  prevented  even  an  accidental  meeting, 
which  was  all  Auchester  now  had  to  look  forward  to. 
He  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  the  cause  of  her  present 
retirement,  and  knowing  how  distressing  the  summer's  ex- 
perience had  been,  he  assumed  heavy  responsibility.  Any 
other  woman  would  have  understood  the  significance  of 
his  proposition,  any  other  woman  would  have  preconsid- 

[308] 


THE    MOTH 


ered  the  consequences,  and  thus  prevented  the  complica- 
tion which  resulted  from  the  misunderstanding;  but  it 
was  because  she  was  unlike  any  other  woman  that  he  loved 
her,  and  he,  with  his  wider  experience,  should  have  pro- 
tected her  innocent  love  of  excitement,  and  prevented  it 
from  becoming  the  mistake  which  she  had  been  incom- 
petent to  foresee. 

What  made  defeat  still  more  difficult  to  accept  was  his 
unconquerable  conviction  that  in  spite  of  her  disclaimers 
her  heart  really  did  respond  to  his  affection.  He  believed 
her  sincere  in  her  uncertainty,  but  while  she  held 
herself  unable  to  accept  his  love,  it  was  but  natural  that 
she  should  refuse  to  allow  her  own  sentiment  to  be  crys- 
tallized. "Oh!  it  is  sweet  to  be  loved!"  she  had  mur- 
mured as  she  rested  in  his  arms.  What  aggravation!  A 
tired  soul  longing  for  affection  and  appreciation,  and  he 
so  ready  to  give  her  both,  yet  denied  the  privilege! 

As  he  had  gradually  broken  away  from  his  familiarity 
with  Spencer,  shortly  after  the  disillusionment  during  his 
week-end  visit  at  Beverly  Farms,  Auchester  also  separated 
himself  from  Vallie's  boon  companions.  He  had  been 
long  enough  in  America  now  to  have  made  lasting  friend- 
ships, and  such  friends,  few  in  number  but  valued,  invited 
him  to  their  homes,  making  him  less  dependent  upon  the 
clubs.  To  them,  as  to  Cunningham,  he  disclosed  his  name 
and  position,  but  his  confidence  wras  respected.  He  accepted 
Cunningham's  suggestion  to  become  better  acquainted 
as  a  matter  of  principle  at  first,  for  he  was  determined 
not  to  allow  himself  to  rest  under  any  misapprehension 
in  the  lawyer's  mind;  but  in  doing  this  both  men  came  to 
admire  and  respect  each  other.  He  followed  the  Mont- 
gomery trial  with  a  less  passionate  interest  and,  therefore, 
with  clearer  understanding  than  most  of  the  spectators. 

[309J 


THE    MOTH 


In  this  way  he  saw  Cunningham  in  action,  and  was  amazed 
by  the  contrast  between  the  man's  character  as  manifested 
in  his  every-day  life  among  his  friends  and  the  new  ex- 
position of  him  in  his  professional  capacity.  He  was  one 
of  the  few  who  was  not  swayed  by  Cunningham's  argu- 
ment, masterly  as  he  admitted  it  to  be.  He  did  not  claim 
that  Montgomery  was  necessarily  innocent,  but  he  felt 
strongly  that  the  lawyer's  experiment  in  psychology  was 
inconclusive.  Auchester  had  been  present  at  trials  iii 
France  where  demonstrations  of  psychological  criminology 
were  frequent,  and  had  seen  phenomenology  applied  even 
more  dramatically  than  in  the  case  just  ended.  He  be- 
lieved in  it  as  a  method  of  detecting  crime,  but  in  the 
Montgomery  case  he  was  convinced  that  the  jury  as  well 
as  the  spectators  were  swayed  by  Cunningham's  evi- 
dent conviction  and  by  the  dramatic  incident  itself  rather 
than  by  anything  it  disclosed.  He  promised  himself  the 
pleasure  of  discussing  the  matter  sometime  with  him, 
when  a  sufficient  interval  had  elapsed  to  prevent  his 
difference  in  opinion  from  seeming  to  be  criticism. 

In  the  meanwhile  Spencer  came  to  the  Badminton  Club, 
to  remain  an  indefinite  period,  so  Auchester  heard  it 
rumored.  What  did  this  mean?  Was  it  simply  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  neglect  which  was  the  portion  of  his 
wife,  or  did  the  act  possess  a  deeper  significance?  It  was 
certain  that  he  was  unaware  of  the  part  the  Captain  had 
played  in  the  Spicer  episode,  or  that  he  was  indifferent 
to  it,  for  he  met  him  with  as  much  civility  as  he  now 
manifested  toward  any  one.  Auchester  dared  not  think 
of  the  second  alternative,  for  it  again  raised  in  him  that 
hope  which  he  had  sternly  tried  to  kill.  But  if  there  should 
be  anything  to  it —  if  Lucy  should  be  freed  from  her  pres- 
ent conventional  bonds  —  No,  the  Captain  assured 

[310] 


THE    MOTH 


himself;  such  happy  coincidences  never  happen  outside 
the  story-book  or  off  the  stage. 

His  opportunity  to  discuss  psychological  criminology 
with  Cunningham  came  about  naturally  after  all,  and 
sooner  than  he  expected.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  fortnight 
after  the  trial  that  the  lawyer  invited  him  to  take  lunch- 
eon with  him,  suggesting  his  office  as  their  meeting-place. 
As  Auchester  entered  he  met  Langdon  on  the  point  of 
leaving,  and  Cunningham,  evidently  deeply  concerned 
with  the  subject  they  had  been  discussing,  impulsively 
asked  them  both  back  into  his  private  room. 

"Langdon  and  I  have  been  exchanging  ideas,"  Cunning- 
ham said,  "and  I  should  like  to  get  your  opinion.  I  saw 
you  at  the  trial  many  times,  and  a  man  of  your  tempera- 
ment gains  a  different  impression  from  that  of  nine- 
tenths  of  the  spectators." 

Cunningham  had  asked  Langdon  for  this  conference 
as  soon  as  he  felt  himself  equal  to  the  discussion.  The 
younger  man's  words  at  the  close  of  the  trial  had  been 
with  him  constantly,  and  when  Margaret  intimated  that 
his  own  mental  processes  were  such  as  to  make  him 
susceptible  to  over-subservience  to  an  idea,  he  became 
obsessed  with  the  fear  that  he  had  made  a  mistake. 
Freed  from  the  heat  of  the  argument  and  the  surprise 
and  disappointment  of  the  verdict,  Langdon  regretted 
his  remark,  but  the  intervening  time  had  not  lessened  his 
conviction.  For  more  than  an  hour  previous  to  Auchester's 
arrival  they  had  discussed  the  question  in  a  friendly  way, 
and  Cunningham  had  found  his  friend  unwavering  in 
his  belief  that  a  miscarriage  of  justice  had  resulted  from 
the  unusual  presentation  of  the  case  on  the  part  of  the 
prosecution. 

"Of  course  I  don't  question  your  sincerity,  Ned,  and 
1311] 


THE    MOTH 


I'm  ashamed  of  myself  that  I  allowed  my  feelings  to  get 
the  better  of  me  when  I  spoke  to  you  that  day.  I  have  no 
excuse  for  it  whatever.  But  I  am  even  more  certain  than 
ever  that  the  woman  did  the  shooting  and  that  Mont- 
gomery is  shielding  her.  I  believe  that  your  construc- 
tion of  the  case  was  absolutely  correct  except  that  the 
principals  should  change  places:  the  woman  shot  Brews- 
ter  and  Montgomery  was  wounded  in  struggling  with 
her  to  gain  possession  of  the  revolver.  I'll  prove  that 
if  we  get  a  new  trial." 

Langdon's  quiet  confidence  had  its  effect  upon  the 
older  man.  "You  still  think  it  was  my  'uncanny  power,' 
do  you,  Tom?" 

"Frankly,  yes,"  was  the  uncompromising  yet  friendly 
answer;  "but  as  you  once  said,  I  realize  that  this  power 
comes  from  your  own  conviction  that  you  are  right." 

"Do  you  remember  what  else  I  said  that  day?"  Cun- 
ningham asked;  "that  if  through  that  power,  as  you  call 
it,  I  ever  accomplished  an  injustice  to  a  prisoner,  I  should 
never  forgive  myself?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  it  perfectly;  but  as  long  as  you 
remain  convinced  that  you  are  right,  you  can't  feel  that 
you  have  accomplished  an  injustice." 

"I  think  you'll  get  a  re-trial,  Tom,"  Cunningham 
replied.  "I  do  feel  that  I'm  right,  but  I  intend  to  put 
myself  through  a  rigid  examination  before  I'm  done 
with  it." 

So  they  had  left  the  matter  when  they  ran  into  Auches- 
ter  in  the  outer  office.  When  they  were  seated,  Cunning- 
ham stated  the  question  clearly  to  him,  and  waited 
eagerly  for  his  answer. 

"I  shall  be  much  influenced  by  your  opinion,"  he  said. 

The  Captain  tugged  at  his  mustache  as  he  always  did 
[3121 


THE    MOTH 


when  placed  in  a  crucial  position.    "You  want  me  to  say 
exactly  what  I  think,  I  suppose?" 

"Exactly,"  Cunningham  replied  with  emphasis.  "There- 
are  no  personalities  in  this." 

"Well,"  Auchester  said  deliberately,  "I  agree  entirely 
with  Mr.  Langdon." 

"You  do!"  Ned  exclaimed.  "You  think  the  psycho- 
logical test  a  failure?" 

"On  the  contrary;  it  was  by  means  of  that  test  that  I 
arrived  at  my  conclusion." 

"Then  how  can  you  agree  with  Langdon?" 

"You  watched  the  man;   I  watched  the  woman." 

Both  men  followed  his  words  with  excited  interest, 
Langdon  showing  satisfaction,  Cunningham  the  deepest 
concern. 

"You  watched  the  woman?"  Ned  repeated.  "What 
did  you  observe?" 

"The  same  phenomenon  which  you  found  in  Mont- 
gomery: she  clenched  her  hand  every  time  Brewster's 
name  was  mentioned." 

"Don't  you  see,  Ned?"  Langdon  broke  in.  "You 
approached  the  case  with  a  preconceived  idea  that  Mont- 
gomery was  guilty;  if  you  had  happened  to  settle  upon 
the  woman,  the  same  test  and  the  same  argument  would 
have  convicted  her." 

"On  the  basis  of  the  experiment  and  what  jointly  we 
all  saw,  it  would  appear  that  both  are  guilty,"  Cunning- 
ham said,  meditatively. 

"They  may  be,"  Auchester  admitted;  "but  the  woman 
struck  me  as  being  more  likely  to  do  the  shooting  in  a 
moment  of  rage  than  the  man  to  premeditate  deliberate 
murder.  Of  course  that  doesn't  go  in  law,  but  you  asked 
my  opinion." 

[313] 


THE    MOTH 


"You  have  given  me  quite  a  shock,  both  of  you,"  Cun- 
ningham remarked.  "We'll  speak  of  this  again,  Tom. 
Now  the  Captain  is  going  to  cheer  me  up  at  luncheon. 
Won't  you  join  us?" 

"Thanks,  no;  I  have  an  appointment  at  the  Exchange 
Club." 

"That's  where  we're  going.  We'll  walk  along  to- 
gether." 

Auchester  was  surprised  to  find  that  his  host  had  en- 
gaged a  private  dining-room,  as  there  appeared  to  be  no 
reason  for  seclusion.  The  conversation  ran  along  general 
lines,  touching  on  the  topics  in  which  they  both  were 
interested.  Cunningham  had  thrown  off  the  concern  he 
manifested  at  his  office,  and  the  Captain  found  him  the 
best  of  good  company. 

After  the  coffee  had  been  served  and  the  cigars  lighted, 
Cunningham  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table  and 
crossed  his  legs.  Auchester  watched  his  face  curiously, 
for  it  was  evident  that  he  was  about  to  say  something  of 
importance.  Ned's  friends  had  learned  to  associate  cer- 
tain personal  acts  and  gestures  with  corresponding  mental 
processes,  and  the  Captain  had  become  more  or  less 
familiar  with  them. 

"Today,"  Cunningham  said  at  length,  "I  propose  to 
perform  an  act  of  restitution.  Last  summer  I  did  you  an 
injustice,  and  I  also  did  an  injustice  to  a  certain  woman 
whom  we  both  admire,  though,  perhaps  I  should  add,  in 
a  different  way.  The  fact  that  I  thought  it  necessary  to 
rush  in  upon  you  that  night  at  'SpicerV  was  an  affront 
to  you  both,  and  I  have  heartily  regretted  it.  Now  let 
me  ask  you  a  question:  Has  Spencer  ever  made  any 
reference  to  it?" 

"None  whatever,"  Auchester  replied.  "He  has  had 
[3141 


THE    MOTH 


every  chance,  for  lately  I've  seen  him  almost  daily  at  the 
club." 

"Has  he  recognized  you?" 

"Certainly;   he's  been  quite  civil." 

"Then  it  was  all  bluff,  as  I  suspected,"  Cunningham 
continued.  Then  he  leaned  across  the  table.  "Do  you 
know,  Auchester,  that  that  little  whelp  actually  threat- 
ened Lucy  to  bring  suit  for  divorce,  naming  you  as 
coresponden .  ?  " 

"The  devil  "  Auchester  exclaimed,  thoroughly  aroused. 
"Why  haven't  I  been  advised  of  it?" 

"I  only  knew  about  it  the  night  after  the  trial.  Lucy 
came  to  my  house  and  poured  out  the  whole  story.  Poor 
little  girl!  he  has  made  her  life  a  pitiful  spectacle.'' 

"But  that  was  a  fortnight  ago.  What  has  happened 
since?  Surely  I  have  a  right  to  defend  myself  —  and  her." 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  any  defense,  my  dear  fellow, 
and  that  is  where  I  perform  my  act  of  restitution.  For 
certain  reasons  which  we  need  not  go  into,  I  have  shown 
Spencer  reasons  why  he  should  abandon  his  intention,  if 
he  ever  had  one,  and  the  incident  is  closed." 

"But  he  couldn't  have  made  that  grounds  for  divorce." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  Lucy  who  has  the  grounds," 
Cunningham  replied.  "His  threat  was  merely  a  bluff  to 
frighten  her,  but  he  seemed  determined  to  pull  it  off, 
*  simply  to  injure  the  man's  reputation,'  as  he  expressed 
it." 

Auchester  relapsed  into  silence.  "I'm  not  sure  that  I 
should  not  have  preferred  to  take  a  hand  in  this  myself," 
he  said,  showing  plainly  that  he  was  perfectly  sure. 

"You  can  employ  your  time  to  better  advantage," 
Cunningham  said,  becoming  almost  jocose.  Match- 
making was  a  new  role  for  him  to  play,  and  he  did  it  rather 

[315] 


THE    MOTH 


clumsily.  "Spencer  sails  for  Europe  next  week,"  he  con- 
tinued. *  'He  will  be  absent  some  length  of  time.  At  the 
expiration  of  the  legal  limitation  Lucy  will  sue  for  divorce 
on  the  grounds  of  desertion.  Do  you  think  you  could 
have  handled  this  matter  any  better  yourself?" 

The  situation  gradually  cleared  for  Auchester.  Cun- 
ningham leaned  back  in  his  chair,  puffing  good-naturedly 
at  his  cigar,  and  enjoying  the  changing  expressions  on  his 
companion's  face. 

"By  Jove!"  the  Captain  exclaimed,  a  broad  smile 
appearing  at  last.  "That  will  leave  her  free!" 

*  You  told  me  once  that  you  never  abandoned  any- 
thing you  undertook,  but  that  sometimes  you  have  had  to 
wait.  Is  your  patience  still  equal  to  the  test?" 

But  Auchester  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts.  The  smile  still  lingered,  and  whatever  may 
have  been  upon  his  mind  seemed  all-sufficient.  "By 
Jove!"  he  repeated  at  length,  —  "by  Jove!" 


1316] 


XXXIII 


NOVEMBER  found  "the  season"  starting  in  with 
full  swing.  Lucy's  new  life  was  slowly  recons'ruct- 
ing  itself  within  as  well  as  without.  When  she 
left  the  Cunninghams'  house  that  evening  the  only  thing 
which  seemed  clear  was  that  the  awful  dread  which  had 
oppressed  her  had  been  miraculously  lifted  from  her  heart. 
At  the  moment  the  how  or  the  why  signified  nothing  so 
long  as  the  specter  had  disappeared.  On  her  return  home 
her  first  thought  was  to  go  to  the  children's  room,  where 
Larry  and  Babs  were  peacefully  dreaming.  She  turned 
on  the  night  lamp  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  tiny  twin 
beds,  listening  to  the  quiet,  regular  breathing,  gazing  at 
the  calm,  sweet  features  reflecting  back  at  her  the  inno- 
cence of  childhood.  These  were  her  children,  her  own 
flesh  and  blood,  and  they  were  to  be  hers  forever !  A  lump 
came  in  her  throat,  tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes,  but  they 
were  tears  of  thanksgiving.  Sight  alone  did  not  satisfy, 
—  she  must  feel  the  touch  of  their  warm  flesh  against  her 
own.  She  sank  on  her  knees  between  the  two  beds, 
brushed  back  the  golden  locks  which  partially  concealed 
Babs'  face,  and  covered  the  soft  cheek  with  kisses.  Then 
she  turned  to  the  other  bed  and  looked  at  Larry's  sturdy 
features.  Her  boy !  what  had  the  future  in  store  for  him? 
Could  it  be  possible  that  a  man  such  as  Vallie  was  ever  a 

[317] 


THE    MOTH 


sweet,  innocent  child  like  this !  What  would  her  boy  grow 
to  be!  Would  he  be  a  lawyer  like  Ned,  or  —  she  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow  beside  him  —  or  would  he  be  a 
soldier  like  Auchester?  No,  not  a  soldier,  she  decided, 
for  that  would  lead  him  into  danger,  and  she  could  not 
endure  that;  but  still  a  man  —  like  Auchester.  For  a 
long  time  she  rested  her  cheek  against  his,  assimilating 
in  part  his  peaceful  calm,  accepting  in  part  his  quiet 
contentment  which  demanded  no  explanation.  She 
rose  with  a  new  strength,  for  the  Voice  of  which 
Margaret  had  told  her  had  spoken  again,  and  this  time 
she  had  heard  and  understood ! 

Margaret  came  in  the  next  day.  Together  they  had 
passed  through  the  agonies  of  suspense,  together  they 
would  rejoice  in  the  emancipation.  Lucy  listened  eagerly 
to  the  explanation  of  Cunningham's  mysterious  influence 
over  Spencer,  of  which  Margaret  had  learned  the  night 
before.  A  blush  of  shame  came  to  her  cheek  at  this 
evidence  of  Vallie's  further  degradation;  yet  why  should 
she  feel  it  more  than  the  countless  other  humiliations  she 
had  endured?  She  could  not  know  that  the  chemistry  of 
the  spirit  was  still  at  work  within  her,  completing  its 
labor  of  crystallization  now  that  it  found  no  opposition; 
she  could  not  know  that  in  that  blush  of  shame  she  spoke 
now  for  her  children  as  well  as  for  herself. 

"  Ned  has  not  the  slightest  idea  that  he  was  in  any  way 
involved,"  Margaret  told  her;  "and  he  is  taking  much 
satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  in  saving  Captain  Auches- 
ter he  has  atoned  for  his  previous  distrust." 

"Need  he  ever  know?"  Lucy  asked.  "What  would  be 
gained?" 

"Sometime  he  must  know  it,"  she  replied,  "but  not 
now.  Sometime  he  must  be  made  to  realize  that  it  is  not 

[318] 


THE    MOTH 


safe  to  keep  one's  eyes  only  on  the  goal  ahead.  The  path 
may  contain  pitfalls." 

"It  was  all  my  fault,"  Lucy  insisted.  "He  deserves  to 
escape,  but  I  am  getting  off  all  too  easily." 

Margaret  looked  tenderly  at  the  thin  face  and  the  hollow 
eyes  which  the  anxious  days  had  left  behind.  "You  have 
paid  your  price,  my  dear,  you  have  paid  your  price." 

Unexpectedly,  and  seemingly  incongruously,  Margaret 
broke  the  silence  which  followed  her  last  remark  with  a 
light  laugh.  "I  was  thinking  of  Ned,"  she  said  in  answer 
to  Lucy's  questioning  look.  "Now  that  the  danger  is 
past  we  can  afford  to  smile;  and  his  satisfaction  over 
the  whole  affair  is  grotesque  to  us  who  know  the  facts. 
He  is  like  that  Indian  prince  in  the  Hindoo  legend  — 
perhaps  you  remember  it  —  who  was  determined  to  see 
his  lady-love.  He  was  warned  that  the  way  was  beset 
with  dangers,  but  he  would  not  be  deterred.  He  came  to 
the  river  Ganges,  which  they  had  told  him  was  impassable, 
but  he  found  a  spot  where  he  could  walk  across,  dry-shod; 
they  told  him  that  the  valley  he  must  pass  through  was 
full  of  hidden  terrors,  but  he  found  it  lighted  by  the 
moon's  reflection  on  white  substances  beneath  his  feet; 
they  told  him  that  the  ravine  which  he  must  cross  was 
guarded  by  the  enemy,  but  he  found  a  bridge  over  which 
he  passed  with  ease;  they  told  him  that  when  he  came  to 
the  princess'  palace  he  could  not  reach  her  window,  but 
there  he  found  a  rope  by  means  of  which  he  attained  the 
object  of  his  quest.  Then  he  turned  toward  home.  The 
glamour  which  had  spread  itself  over  all  had  vanished, 
and  he  found  that  the  path  on  which  he  had  crossed  the 
Ganges  was  made  up  of  corpses;  that  the  white  sub- 
stances which  had  reflected  the  moon's  light  in  the  valley 
were  the  bleached  bones  of  those  who  had  entered  it  before; 

[319] 


THE    MOTH 


that  the  bridge  across  the  ravine  was  formed  by  the  crossed 
knives  of  the  soldiers;  that  what  he  had  thought  to  be  a 
rope  was  in  reality  a  deadly  cobra.  His  eyes,  like  Ned's, 
were  fixed  only  upon  his  goal;  he,  like  Ned,  could  not  see 
the  dangers  in  his  path." 

"That  is  like  Ned,"  Lucy  smiled;  "but  after  all,  what 
a  relief  to  see  one  man  out  of  the  thousand  whose  first 
thought  is  to  respond  rather  than  to  make  sure  that 
the  ground  is  firm  beneath  his  feet.  You  should  be  very 
proud  of  him,  Peggy." 

"I  am  proud,  even  though  anxious  at  times.  He  gets 
that  trait  from  his  Puritan  ancestors;  but  in  those  days 
they  hoped  there  might  be  hidden  pitfalls  so  that  they 
could  become  Christian  martyrs.  Times  have  changed 
since  then.  One  isn't  canonized  nowadays  for  falling 
into  a  manhole  or  the  subway.  —  Now,  one  other  thing, 
my  dear.  We  have  taken  the  Leslies'  box  at  the  Opera  for 
Monday  nights,  and  we  want  you  to  go  with  us  for  the 
opening  performance.  It's  the  twenty-fifth,  you  know." 

"I'd  love  to  go,"  Lucy  exclaimed.  "By  that  time  I 
shall  have  dispensed  with  these  dark  lines  beneath  my 
eyes;  and,  thank  Heaven!  one  doesn't  have  to  wear  black 
for  an  approaching  divorce!" 

"And  Lucy,"  Margaret  went  on,  "Ned  would  like  to 
have  me  ask  Captain  Auchester.  Would  it  be  unpleasant 
for  you?  The  Brookses  will  be  the  other  two." 

"Would  it  be  unpleasant?"  she  repeated,  with  just 
a  touch  of  color  showing  in  her  pale  face.  "Why,  no; 
I'd  be  glad  to  see  him  again."  Then  her  hesitation  van- 
ished. "Of  course  I'd  be  glad  to  see  him  again." 

"Splendid!  That  makes  our  party  complete.  We'll 
have  a  short  little  dinner  at  six-thirty  sharp;  the  curtain 
rises  at  eight." 

[3201 


THE    MOTH 


Even  with  his  business  affairs  entirely  settled,  Auches- 
ter  found  reasons  for  postponing  his  return  to  England. 
After  his  luncheon  with  Cunningham  several  important 
changes  took  place  in  his  previously  arranged  plans,  and 
for  a  man  who  ordinarily  resented  outside  interference 
he  accepted  Ned's  friendly  offices  with  singular  good- 
nature. When  the  dinner  and  box  party  for  the  opening 
night  of  the  Opera  was  suggested,  together  with  a  sly 
intimation  from  Ned  that  Lucy  would  be  of  it,  he  de- 
murred until  he  learned  that  she  had  already  been  con- 
sulted. If  she  still  cherished  against  him  the  liberties  he 
took  at  'Spicer's"  she  would  not  now  voluntarily  place 
herself  in  a  position  which  could  but  reopen  their  previous 
acquaintance,  and  knowing  as  she  did  that  his  sentiments 
had  long  since  passed  the  bounds  of  friendship,  her  accept- 
ance showed  that  she  did  not  seriously  object  to  him. 
These  thoughts,  together  with  others  along  the  same 
line,  gave  the  Captain  much  satisfaction,  and  he  viewed 
the  approach  of  the  opening  of  the  Opera  season  with  an 
anticipation  not  wholly  due  to  his  love  of  music. 

Lucy,  too,  found  herself  concerned  with  more  than  her 
interest  in  the  particular  opera  selected  to  start  music- 
mad  Boston  off  into  another  season  of  intellectual  de- 
bauch. It  may  have  been  a  coincidence  that  in  ordering 
her  new  gown  she  should  have  determined  upon  white, 
or  it  may  have  been  that  she  remembered  a  remark  which 
Auchester  had  once  made  to  the  effect  that  white  became 
her  best.  That  was  what  she  had  worn  on  the  eventful 
evening  at  "Spicer's,"  and  she  would  wear  it  again  if  only 
to  show  him  that  with  it  she  associated  no  unhappy 
memories.  He  had  probably  forgotten  her  by  this  time; 
no  man  thoroughly  consumed  with  love  would  have 
stayed  away  all  these  weeks  simply  because  his  letter 
21  [ 321  ] 


THE    MOTH 


had  remained  unanswered!  But  the  Captain  differed 
from  other  men.  He  had  imagination  enough  in  some 
ways,  but  when  it  came  to  aught  which  had  to  do  with 
women  she  knew  that  his  sense  of  gallantry  would  cause 
him  to  accept  their  words  with  literal  exactness.  What 
could  he  have  seen  in  her?  Had  he  really  spoken  those 
words  which  she  seemed  to  recall  with  such  heavenly 
vividness,  yet  which  were  clothed  with  no  reality?  She 
could  never  make  him  or  any  other  man  happy;  she 
was  too  inconsequential  and  too  irresponsible  to  satisfy 
any  one  after  the  glamour  of  first  companionship  passed 
into  that  analytical  period  which  displays  everything  in 
the  pitiless  light  of  truth.  It  was  a  further  act  of  folly, 
she  told  herself,  to  have  Auchester  so  much  in  her  mind, 
for  by  this  time  he  had  undoubtedly  reached  that  period, 
and  rejoiced  that  circumstances  had  preserved  him.  Still 
she  did  not  chide  herself  when  she  found  her  thoughts 
running  along  forbidden  paths. 

In  spite  of  Margaret's  warning,  Lucy  was  the  last  to 
arrive  for  dinner.  She  was  not  too  late,  being  guilty  only 
of  that  genteel  tardiness  which  makes  the  entrance  of  a 
beautiful  woman  into  a  reception  room  one  of  the  events 
of  the  occasion.  It  had  been  so  long  since  she  had  given 
herself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  an  evening  such  as  this 
that  she  felt  almost  diffident  as  she  paused  a  brief  moment 
in  the  doorway  before  greeting  her  hostess.  Then  the  joy 
of  it  possessed  her  and  she  was  herself  again.  No  one  who 
did  not  know  would  have  believed  that  suffering  could 
ever  have  found  shelter  behind  that  smiling,  contented 
face;  no  one  who  did  not  know  would  have  recognized 
in  the  quiet,  attractive  dignity  of  pose  the  one-time  rest- 
less spirit  which  had  set  out  upon  its  quest  for  happiness 
unmindful  that  the  world  is  what  it  is,  and  had  returned 

[322J 


THE    MOTH 


to  its  haven  chastened  and  refined  by  the  fire  through 
which  it  passed. 

The  entire  evening  was  unreal  to  Lucy,  forming  a 
climax  to  the  dream-world  in  which  she  now  lived.  Au- 
chester  took  her  out  to  dinner,  and  their  conversation  was 
as  natural  as  if  they  were  casual  acquaintances.  How 
could  it  be  possible,  when  together  they  had  sipped  the 
cup  of  forgetfulness,  and  but  for  the  awakening  of  an 
untried  sense  would  together  have  drained  it  to  the 
dregs!  Cunningham  was  in  the  rarest  spirits  and  Mar- 
garet reflected  the  glow  of  his  satisfaction.  The  Brookses, 
just  home  from  Germany,  contributed  interesting  side- 
lights on  Max  Rheinhardt's  triumphs,  and  of  the  prob- 
able results  of  his  influence,  from  which  the  conversation 
naturally  turned  upon  the  new  scenic  effects  to  be  tried 
at  the  Opera  House;  they  spoke  of  the  regrets  of  the 
German  people  that  America  had  wrested  from  them 
their  beloved  conductor  for  the  Boston  Symphony.  The 
Captain  showed  an  astonishing  fund  of  knowledge  upon 
these  as  on  every  subject,  and  the  discussion  formed  a 
brilliant  prelude  for  the  evening  to  follow. 

Lucy  was  but  dimly  conscious  of  the  break  in  the  moving 
of  events  as  they  rose  from  the  table  and  later  put  on  their 
wraps,  yet  she  was  keenly  alive  to  the  touch  of  Auchester's 
hand  as  he  assisted  her  into  the  limousine.  The  long  line  of 
motors,  awaiting  their  turn  to  discharge  their  aristocratic 
freights,  the  glare  of  the  lights,  the  mob  of  handsomely 
gowned  women  and  well-groomed  men  in  the  foyer,  —  all 
made  their  impression,  but  it  might  have  been  a  picture 
she  was  looking  at  instead  of  a  living  reality.  What  did 
seem  real  was  the  meeting  at  the  door  with  the  Channings, 
the  expression  on  "Medusa's"  face  as  her  eyes  quickly 
sought  and  found  Cunningham,  and  the  curious  change 

[323] 


THE    MOTH 


which  took  place  when  the  next  glance  showed  Lucy 
and  Margaret  close  together.  They  moved  on  through  the 
doors  and  to  the  Cunninghams'  box  hi  the  upper  tier, 
which  the  trim  maid  unlocked  for  them  to  enter.  Gradu- 
ally the  chaos  became  order,  the  lights  were  lowered,  the 
conductor  struck  his  baton  authoritatively  against  the 
desk  in  front  of  him,  the  strings  softly  drew  the  tangible 
from  out  the  intangible,  followed  quickly  by  the  'cellos 
and  the  basses  as  the  brief  overture  of  "Madama  Butter- 
fly" seized  the  audience  in  its  grip.  Then  the  curtain 
rose:  in  front  of  it,  pride  of  birth  and  of  possession;  be- 
hind, song-birds  whose  golden  notes  represented  the  for- 
tunes of  the  Incas,  —  the  apotheosis  of  human  luxury ! 

All  still  the  dream!  Lucy  had  heard  this  opera  many 
times,  but  tonight  the  music  came  to  her  with  a  new  mean- 
ing, and  she  listened  to  it  with  sensations  she  had  not 
before  experienced.  At  other  times  the  tense  little  Butter- 
fly had  amused  her.  How  absurd  to  think  that  she  could 
love  and  suffer  as  the  clever  librettist  portrayed  her!  Now 
Lucy  found  that  she  was  living  her  tragedy  with  her.  It 
was  not  the  Oriental  but  the  woman  whom  she  saw  before 
her,  and  her  sympathy  went  out  to  her  with  such  definite 
sincerity  that  the  intensifying  passion  of  the  music  sank 
into  her  heart  with  a  force  which  caused  her  pain.  And 
when  the  last  act  came,  and  the  neglected  wife  changed 
into  the  self-sacrificing  mother,  it  was  not  a  mimic  repro- 
duction of  life  which  she  saw  enacted  before  her;  it  was 
life  itself.  Why  had  it  never  before  brought  tears  to  her 
eyes?  Why  had  the  opera  never  before  touched  her  heart? 

It  might  have  been  the  art  of  the  singer;  but  she  had 
heard  it  well  sung  before.  It  was  true  that  in  the  long 
reaches  of  the  love-duet  there  was  a  richness  in  the  beauty 
of  the  sustained  song,  that  the  music  of  the  strewing  of 

[324] 


THE    MOTH 


the  flowers  was  no  more  lovely  than  the  tones  of  the 
singer's  voice,  that  the  short  phrases  with  which  the  music 
of  the  opera  teems  became  on  her  lips  the  voice  of  a  clar- 
inet. Amsden  would  have  told  her  that  Puccini's  later 
music-dramas  are  fabrics  of  orchestral  and  vocal  inter- 
jection, designed  to  excite  the  nerves  of  those  who  listen 
as  they  watch  the  tense  action  on  the  stage.  But  Lucy 
did  not  wish  it  analyzed.  She  and  Cio-Cio-San  were 
one  throughout  the  transitions  of  emotion.  She  felt 
rather  than  heard  the  gladness  of  the  first  act,  the  wist- 
ful, patient  longing  of  the  second,  and  the  desolation  of 
the  third.  But,  most  astonishing  of  all,  she  needed  no 
analysis;  she  knew  that  it  was  that  same  Voice,  still 
speaking,  which  now  made  it  real! 

During  the  interval  in  which  they  promenaded,  Au- 
chester  told  her  that  he  was  soon  to  return  home,  and 
asked  if  he  might  call  to  say  "goodbye".  She  had  not 
thought  of  his  leaving  Boston,  yet  of  course  it  was  natural 
that  this  should  happen.  Of  a  certainty  she  would  be  glad 
to  see  him,  and  sorry  indeed  that  the  time  of  parting  was 
so  near  at  hand.  The  performance  came  to  an  end,  the 
merry  party  found  its  way  again  to  the  entrance,  discuss- 
ing the  merits  of  the  singers  and  the  brilliancy  of  the 
premiere.  The  motor  separated  itself  from  the  throb- 
bing mass  of  machines,  and  swiftly  passed  on  to  the 
different  homes,  where  the  party  gradually  became 
disintegrated. 

Lucy  found  herself  at  length  in  her  own  room,  alone; 
and  then  the  dream-world  gave  up  its  uncertainty  and 
life  became  real.  She  had  seen  him  again,  and  she  felt 
the  strength  and  courage  of  his  personality  pass  into  her 
own  spirit,  which  she  no  longer  trusted.  He  would 
come  to  her  the  following  afternoon  to  say  "goodbye". 

[325] 


THE    MOTH 


Was  it  to  be  a  last  farewell,  or  would  she  sometime  see 
him  again,  and  — 

The  maid  found  her  strangely  distraite  as  she  assisted 
her  in  preparing  for  the  night.  Lucy  was  eager  to  be  rid 
of  all  human  companionship,  that  she  might  give  herself 
up  to  the  thoughts  which  crowded  upon  each  other  in  her 
mind.  At  last  she  threw  herself  upon  the  bed  and  turned 
out  the  light,  welcoming  the  darkness  as  a  confederate 
to  aid  her  as  she  surreptitiously  drew  her  mental  picture. 
And  in  this  picture  she  saw  herself  again  in  the  little 
dining-room  at  "Spicer's,"  listening  to  a  man's  story  of 
his  devotion,  and  the  woman  made  reply,  "Oh!  it  is  sweet 
to  b«  loved,  it  is  so  sweet  to  be  loved!" 


[326] 


XXXIV 


AMSDEN  and  Cunningham  arranged  the  final 
/_%  details  with  Spencer,  so  that  Lucy  might  be 
-*•  •*-  spared  the  disagreeable  necessity  of  seeing  him 
again.  Against  her  lawyer's  advice,  the  settlement,  con- 
ditional only  upon  his  carrying  out  his  agreement,  was 
too  generous;  but  she  gloried  in  this  only  opportunity  left 
for  self-penalization.  There  was  still  enough  remaining 
to  insure  comfort  for  herself  and  the  children,  so  the 
sacrifice  was  really  not  so  serious  as  she  imagined,  and 
Amsden  was  satisfied  that  the  moral  effect  upon  her  was 
worth  the  price  it  cost.  Spencer  was  agreeably  surprised, 
and  sailed  for  Europe  with  less  iron  in  his  soul  than  would 
otherwise  have  been  the  case;  so  the  final  break  was  made 
with  a  minimum  shock  to  all  concerned. 

The  old  man  was  scarcely  less  relieved  than  Lucy  when 
he  heard  from  her  that  her  husband  had  been  forced  into 
an  agreement.  She  could  give  him  only  a  hazy  idea  of 
what  had  occurred,  so  he  talked  matters  over  with  Cun- 
ningham, and  learned  from  him  the  whole  story. 

"It  goes  against  my  gram  to  force  a  man  to  do  the  right 
tiling  by  means  of  a  threat,"  Cunningham  told  him, 
"but  if  ever  there  was  an  end  which  justified  the  means, 
this  is  it.  Lucy  is  as  innocent  as  an  unborn  babe,  and 
Auchester  is  the  soul  of  honor;  it  would  have  been  a 

[3271 


THE    MOTH 


rough  deal  to  have  had  a  scandal  come  out  of  their  foolish 
escapade." 

"Auchester?"  queried  Amsden.  "Did  you  think  it  was 
Auchester  Mr.  Spencer  was  trying  to  reach?" 

"Of  course  it  was  Auchester."  Cunningham  showed 
his  surprise.  "Lucy  must  have  told  you.  Who  else  could 
it  be?" 

"Why  —  frankly — "the  old  man  stumbled,  "I  under- 
stood that  it  was  you." 

Cunningham  regarded  him  as  if  he  had  suddenly  lost 
his  mind.  "You  understood  that  Spencer  was  to  name  me 
as  corespondent?"  he  demanded,  speaking  slowly. 

"There  is  no  question  whatever  about  it,"  Amsden 
replied  firmly,  with  equal  doubts  as  to  the  other  man's 
sanity.  "That  was  what  almost  drove  Lucy  to 
distraction." 

"How  perfectly  ridiculous!"  he  replied;  but  the  assur- 
ance which  was  ever  with  him  had  disappeared. 

"I'm  surprised  that  Lucy  did  not  tell  you,"  the  old  man 
went  on,  fearing  lest  he  be  criticized  professionally.  "It 
was  understood  that  she  would  do  so  as  soon  as  the  trial 
was  over.  As  Spencer  had  not  served  his  papers  I  thought 
it  wise  not  to  divert  you  needlessly." 

"She  came  to  tell  me,"  Cunningham  hastened  to 
exonerate  her.  "She  came  the  night  after  the  trial  ended, 
—  and  I  wouldn't  let  her  tell  me." 

"I  am  surprised  that  you  could  keep  her  from  it," 
Amsden  said.  "Her  one  thought  has  been  to  protect  you 
from  the  results  of  her  own  folly.  She  would  have  given 
her  husband  her  entire  estate,  but  when  it  came  to  relin- 
quishing one  of  the  children,  she  stood  up  and  fought." 

"God  bless  her  for  that!"  he  returned.  "I  could  not 
respect  her  as  I  do  if  she  had  yielded  that." 

[328] 


THE    MOTH 


Amsden  saw  by  Cunningham's  manner  that  the  news  he 
had  given  him  had  produced  a  tremendous  shock.  His 
whole  attitude  had  changed,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  he  kept  his  mind  upon  the  subject  before  them.  At 
its  conclusion  the  old  man  expressed  his  regrets  that 
he  should  have  been  the  one  to  acquaint  him  with  the 
unpleasant  facts. 

"It  hits  me  a  good  deal  harder  than  you  imagine,"  he 
replied,  with  much  feeling.  "A  man  can  perhaps  take  a 
certain  amount  of  satisfaction  in  being  a  knave,  but  pre- 
cious little  in  being  shown  up  an  ass.  Now  you  can  do  me 
one  more  favor.  Will  you  meet  me  at  Lucy's  house  this 
afternoon?" 

"With  pleasure.    At  what  hour?" 

"Four  o'clock." 

"I  shall  be  there  at  that  time,"  Amsden  said,  wonder- 
ingly,  as  he  took  his  departure. 

So  it  happened  that  Lucy  received  a  larger  company 
than  she  had  looked  for  on  that  afternoon  which  followed 
the  Opera  party  with  the  Cunninghams.  Margaret 
arrived  first  and  found  Lucy  in  the  midst  of  her  toilette. 

"I  don't  know  why  I'm  here,  but  Ned  telephoned  me. 
He  and  Mr.  Amsden  are  coming  at  four,"  she  said  by  way 
of  explanation. 

"Four?"  Lucy  queried,  looking  at  the  clock  appre- 
hensively. "Why,  it's  nearly  that  now.  Well,  I  won't 
keep  them  waiting  long." 

Mr.  Amsden  was  walking  up  the  steps  when  Cunning- 
ham alighted  from  a  motor  cab,  such  being  the  punctuality 
of  the  two  men,  and  they  entered  the  house  together. 
Margaret  explained  Lucy's  delay  and  tried  to  keep  up  the 
conversation,  but  her  husband  was  entirely  absorbed.  It 
was  a  relief  when  Lucy  at  last  entered  the  room. 

[329] 


THE    MOTH 


"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  greeted  them  with  a 
happy  smile.  "It  isn't  as  gay  as  it  was  the  last  time  you 
were  here,  Ned,  but  you're  just  that  much  safer!"  She 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  be  mischievous.  "You 
aren't  afraid  of  me  now,  are  you,  Ned?  " 

But  he  was  in  no  mood  for  bantering.  "This  is  my  party 
today,  Lucy,"  he  said  meaningly.  "I've  asked  Margaret 
and  Mr.  Amsden  to  be  here  so  that  I  can  tell  you  all  at 
once  that  the  scales  have  been  lifted  from  my  eyes,  and 
that  at  last  I  see  myself  as  I  must  always  have  appeared 
to  others." 

As  they  wondered  at  the  significance  of  his  unexpected 
words,  Auchester  was  announced. 

"Ask  him  to  wait  in  the  reception  room,"  Lucy  told 
the  butler. 

"No,"  Cunningham  corrected;  "please  have  him  come 
up  here.  He  is  needed  to  make  this  complete." 

Still  wondering,  Lucy  complied  with  his  request. 

"Auchester,"  he  said,  scarcely  giving  him  time  for 
greetings,  "I  was  just  telling  these  friends  here,  among 
whom  you  are  included,  that  at  last  I  have  learned  what 
an  arrant  cad  I've  been  —  always,  I  suspect.  First  of 
all,  I've  tried  to  show  Lucy  how  she  ought  to  live,  and  you 
know  what  a  failure  I've  made  of  that;  then  I  undertook 
to  tell  you  the  proper  code  for  a  gentleman  to  observe,  and 
you've  taught  me  by  that  patient  indulgence  which  is  a 
part  of  your  natural  manhood  a  lesson  which  I  shall  never 
forget;  I  ridiculed  Margaret  when  she  did  her  best  to  show 
me  that  I  was  guilty  of  far  greater  disregard  of  conven- 
tions than  Lucy  ever  thought  of,  and  now  I  learn  that 
while  I  thought  I  was  protecting  you,  I  was  only  saving 
my  own  skin." 

"You  know,  then!"  both  women  exclaimed  together. 
[330J 


THE    MOTH 


"Yes;  Amsden  told  me,  supposing  of  course  that  I 
knew  it  all  the  time.  I've  tried  to  run  the  universe,  and 
considered  myself  the  only  one  competent  to  do  it.  Don't 
you  see,  Peggy?"  he  added,  turning  to  his  wife,  "this  was 
another  instance  of  insane  adherence  to  a  preconceived 
idea,  such  as  I  spoke  to  you  about  the  other  night.  I 
knew  that  Lucy  and  the  Captain  were  together  there,  and 
nothing  could  drive  it  into  my  head  that  I  was  in  any  way 
included.  You  and  Lucy  tried  to  tell  me,  but  I  wouldn't 
listen.  Then  I  took  it  upon  myself  to  instruct  Langdon  in 
the  ethics  of  the  law,  but  in  my  own  practice  I  was  again 
blinded  by  a  preconceived  idea.  Through  this  I  may 
have  jeopardized  an  innocent  man's  life,  but,  thank  God! 
it  is  not  too  late  to  rectify  that  mistake." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  after  his  fierce  self-arraign- 
ment, during  which  his  bitterness  frightened  those  who 
heard  it.  Margaret  with  difficulty  restrained  herself 
from  checking  him;  but  knowing  him  so  well  she 
realized  that  to  a  conscience  such  as  his  this  castiga- 
tion  was  the  saving  clause.  Uncompromising  in  meeting 
mistakes  in  others,  he  was  pitiless  when  he  found  himself 
offending. 

"Now,  my  friends,"  he  continued,  "y°u  know  me  for 
what  I  am,  and,  what  is  more  important,  I  know  myself. 
You  will  be  generous,  but  that  only  makes  my  responsi- 
bility the  greater." 

Cunningham's  words  were  so  affecting  that  no  one 
tried  to  make  reply.  When  he  concluded  there  was  a 
tense  silence,  which  he  himself  was  the  first  to  break. 
He  surprised  every  one  by  the  sudden  change  in  voice 
and  manner. 

"Lucy,"  he  said,  so  tenderly  that  it  almost  brought  the 
tears  which  were  already  near  the  surface,  "I  thank  you 

[331] 


THE    MOTH 


from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  the  sacrifices  you  tried 
to  make  for  me.  I  wasn't  worth  it,  for  I  acted  like  a  fool; 
but  I'm  glad  you  did  it,  for  Margaret's  sake.  Auchester," 
he  continued,  holding  out  his  hand,  "I  hope  I  may  always 
claim  your  friendship." 

The  Captain  grasped  the  extended  hand  with  warm 
cordiality.  "Only  on  condition  that  we  divide  the 
blame  and  place  it  where  it  belongs,"  he  said.  "What- 
ever this  experience  may  have  taught  you,  Cunningham, 
I  have  learned  from  it  that  my  code  and  the  one  I've 
tried  to  persuade  Mrs.  Spencer  to  adopt  is  not  as  sound 
as  I  once  considered  it." 

"Peggy,"  Cunningham  said,  "come  home,  and  let  me 
tell  you  what  I  have  to  say  to  you  where  no  one  else  can 
hear." 

As  they  turned  toward  the  door  Lucy  placed  her  hand 
on  Ned's  arm.  "You  are  still  trying  to  shoulder  my 
load,"  she  said.  "I  can't  say  the  right  thing  now,  but  I 
told  you  once  just  why  I  lo.ved  you,  and  my  ideas  haven't 
changed  a  bit  since  then.  I  have  been  the  moth,  dazzled 
by  the  light  and  hovering  about  the  flame.  Now  I  stand 
on  the  threshold,  appalled  by  the  possibilities  you  have 
taught  me  to  see,  and  wondering  if  I  can  discover  their 
meaning.  But  you  have  done  your  part." 

When  Amsden  said  "goodbye"  she  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  causing  the  old  man 
untold  embarrassment  but  inward  joy.  "Without  you  I 
could  never  have  had  courage  or  strength  to  pass  through 
these  bitter  experiences,"  she  said.  "I  can  never  thank 
you  enough,  but  I'm  sure  my  father  knows  and  blesses 
you  for  what  you've  done." 

Then  Lucy  and  Auchester  were  left  alone.  "Well." 
she  said  to  him  as  they  seated  themselves,  "we  have 

[332] 


THE    MOTH 


managed  to  stir  up  a  little  unpleasantness  for  you  after 
all!  Do  you  remember  that  when  you  first  dined  with 
us,  and  spoke  of  your  fighting  blood,  I  suggested  it?" 

"I  remember  every  word  you  have  ever  said  to 
me,"  he  replied.  "The  same  fighting  blood  is  in  me 
now,  and  I've  come  to  you  today  ready  to  fight  the 
greatest  battle  of  my  life  for  the  highest  stake  in  the 
world." 

She  could  not  misunderstand  his  wrords  this  time,  and 
she  made  no  attempt  to  avoid  the  issue.  She  had  known 
since  the  night  before  that  this  moment  would  come,  and 
she  had  made  her  decision. 

"I  must  sail  on  Saturday,"  he  said.  "May  I  not  take 
with  me  your  promise  to  be  my  wife?  I  realize  now  that 
we  must  wait  for  the  legal  formalities,  but  your  promise 
will  make  that  waiting  possible." 

She  looked  at  him  with  infinite  tenderness.  "It  would 
be  so  easy  for  me  to  answer  —  'yes'." 

"Then  you  will-  '  He  started  forward  eagerly,  but 
she  interrupted  him. 

"No,  Malcolm;   I  cannot  give  you  that  promise." 

"You  cannot?"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  back. 

"Not  yet,  —  but  if  you  are  content  to  wait  — " 

"We  must  wait,  of  course,"  he  answered,  not  compre- 
hending. "All  I  ask  for  now  is  your  promise." 

"But  that  is  what  I  dare  not  give.  Don't  misunder- 
stand me,"  she  added  quickly,  noting  his  expression. 
"If  I  gave  you  that  promise  now,  it  would  be  simply 
because  my  heart  is  so  hungry  for  the  love  you  offer 
me.  That  would  not  be  fair  to  you,  and  I  could  not 
accept  it.  All  these  years  I  have  lived  a  life  wrapped 
up  wholly  hi  myself.  My  husband  has  meant  nothing 
to  me;  it  is  only  recently  that  I  have  learned  to  know 

[333] 


THE    MOTH 


my  children,  —  I  am  not  sure  even  now  that  I  know 
myself.  It  would  be  so  easy  for  me  to  answer  'yes'« 
Don't  you  understand?" 

"I  am  content  to  take  that  risk,"  he  replied. 

"But  I  am  not.  I  love  you,  Malcolm,  and  I'm  proud 
to  tell  you  so;  but  it  is  a  love  which  has  not  yet  been 
tested.  How  do  I  know  that  it  is  real,  that  it  is  other 
than  the  hope  that  love  will  come.  It  seems  real  now, 
and  it  is  a  struggle  not  to  yield  to  it." 

' '  Why  should  you  struggle  ?  Why  should  you  not  yield  ?  " 
he  demanded  with  man's  impatience. 

"The  love  itself  is  why,"  she  answered  simply.  "Had 
I  been  free  when  you  asked  me  before  I  should  not  have 
hesitated.  Today,  loving  you,  I  realize  what  it  means. 
You  are  prepared  to  give  much  to  your  wife;  in  return  she 
should  be  able  to  give  you  an  equal  portion.  I  believe 
that  all  will  be  as  you  wish  if  you  will  let  me  have  time  to 
test  myself,  but  I  cannot  make  you  that  promise  now. 
Let  me  forget  the  woman  I  was  and  learn  to  know  the 
woman  I  am  or  can  become." 

Auchester  found  it  difficult  to  accept  the  situation. 
Just  when  the  cup  seemed  at  his  lips,  she  dashed  it  away 
for  what  seemed  to  him  no  real  reason,  but  simply  because 
of  baseless  doubts.  Of  course  he  could  be  patient,  but 
what  might  not  intervene! 

"You  forget  how  many  years  I  have  already  waited 
for  you,"  he  said.  "I  was  waiting  before  I  knew  you, 
—  before  I  knew  for  what  I  was  waiting." 

"Since  it  has  been  so  long  surely  a  little  longer  will  not 
matter,"  she  urged,  smiling  sweetly, — "if  you  really  want 
me." 

"If  I  really  want  you!"  he  exclaimed,  all  the  unex- 
pressed longing  of  the  past,  all  the  pent-up  emotion  of 

[334J 


THE    MOTH 


the  present  crowding  itself  into  his  words.  "It  is  because  I 
want  you  so  desperately  that  I  cannot  bring  myself  to 
take  even  the  slightest  risk  of  losing  you." 

"Let  me  have  the  sweet  thought  of  becoming  your  wife 
to  keep  me  constant  in  my  effort  to  make  myself  equal  to 
that  joy,"  she  pleaded. 

"Too  great  perfection  in  the  wife  imposes  impossible 
conditions  on  the  husband." 

"It  won't  be  perfect  enough  for  that,"  she  laughed; 
but  you  told  me  that  you  became  more  demanding  as 
you  grew  older,  —  and  you'll  be  just  that  much  older 
then." 

"  You  are  a  feminine  Tantalus ! "  he  cried. 
"Woman  is  the  soldier's  aggravation,'"  she  quoted. 

"You  remember  my  words  so  well  that  I  shan't  dare 
speak  —  " 

"Don't  speak;"  she  interrupted  quickly, —  "only 
wait!" 


[535] 


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" 


. 

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'lull  Hllil  1 1  (III  1 1  INI  I 
A     000127580     9 


